Light Up the Dark
by arduna
Summary: Scars aren't always visible on the outside. War stories told in flashbacks from Season 3.5 "To Play the King". This is part of my "Battlescars" series and follows on from Luck Will Travel, but each story stands alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Battlescars Two: Light Up The Dark**

Author's note:

 _The action takes place mostly during the war, but is recounted retrospectively after the events of Season 3.5 "To Play the King", so big references to/spoilers for that episode. I wondered why d'Artagnan had been so determined to help Borel during the prison breakout from the Châtelet, and this is the result._

 _Warning: this will be a long story and covers some dark themes with stories from the war as the effects continue to be felt after they return, hence the Mature rating, but hopefully there's enough variety to keep it interesting. No spoilers now and I will give warning nearer the time as things get heavy. There's a bit of swearing and occasional blaspheming. I make no further apology for this: I asked the boys for restraint and they did their best, but I am sure a lot worse is said in war, no matter what the century._

 _Reference is made to both my previous stories but this one stands alone so you don't need to have read the others to follow this one._

 _A note about timings: France declared war on Spain in 1635 but the BBC series starts in 1630 and they go to war about two years later. So I have kept BBC time and assumed they return at the beginning of series 3 after four years of war, so 1636. The narrative jumps between here and two years into the war ie 1634, BBC time._

 _As with my previous story, Luck Will Travel, the story and chapter titles all come from the inspirational song "Battlescars" by Paradise Lost._

 _Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers and am grateful to be able to borrow their characters to feed my imagination. Credit to Ellen Taylor, writer of Episode 3.5, from which I quote._

* * *

 **Chapter One: You've had enough**

 _The Garrison, Summer 1636_

d'Artagnan sat at the corner table in the garrison courtyard, drinking wine at the end of a long, hot day. It was a familiar scene since the return of most of the Musketeer regiment from the front, and the usual bustle carried on around him – horses being unsaddled and groomed, fed and watered; uniforms shed, weapons cleaned and safely housed; men moving hopefully towards the common room and being shooed out again by Serge. All around him voices called out to each other, teasing and swopping stories about the drama of the day. But in the midst of the bustle, d'Artagnan sat almost motionless, only his fingers moving as they curled restlessly around a pottery goblet, twiddling.

He'd shed his doublet and sat in his shirtsleeves, sharp white against tanned skin that was still covered in the dust of the day's frantic activity to round up the escapees from the Châtelet.

His outer stillness in no way reflected his inner thoughts as he brooded over the events of the day. The dash to the Châtelet on receiving news of the riots that had resulted in a mass prisoner escape, their sheer numbers overwhelming the Red Guard who had been detailed to help. Fistfights in the market place, protecting the Parisian civilians as the desperate convicts grabbed food and hostages. The frenzied search of the refugee camp to where a group of prisoners had fled. Seeing the strangely imposing figure of Borel as he seemed to bow to d'Artagnan across the chaos of women, children and prisoners, mingling in a place they should never have shared.

A muscle in d'Artagnan's jaw jumped as he remembered being drawn in by the intelligence and fragility in the man's gaze before he'd disappeared in the crowd. He'd tracked him down to a parish church nearby, and as he cautiously let the entrance door close behind him, d'Artagnan had been struck by the deep silence within, the richness of incense and waxed wood, the tranquil dust motes dancing in the soft light.

He'd seen the confusion and vulnerability in Borel's expression. He'd seen the tattoo on the back of Borel's wrist that marked him as an army man, and the blank look in his eyes as he tried to remember who he had once been.

The realisation that Borel was beyond help – that his mind had been so twisted by the horrors he'd lived through that his reality was warped, seeing friend and foe alike morphing around him in a dance, the steps of which he no longer knew – came too late to save the lives of the two nuns who d'Artagnan had persuaded to shelter the escapee.

His grip on the goblet tightened convulsively as he remembered racing into the chapel of the convent and seeing the two bodies sprawled out on the floor, pools of blood around their heads like grotesque halos. Borel had murdered them, but it was d'Artagnan who had placed him there instead of returning him to the Chatelet; d'Artagnan who had used his uniform and his charm to convince the nuns to help: d'Artagnan alone who was responsible.

Bile flooded the back of his throat as he realised it could have been Constance lying with her throat slit, if he'd gone with his first impulse to seek help from his wife. She would have helped, he knew, but he hadn't known if she was back from helping Aramis to search for the locksmith's wife, and he couldn't risk bringing Borel to the garrison without clearing it with Athos first.

Had it been arrogance, that made him think he knew best? That he could help this victim of the war with his wounded mind? Whatever his motivation, two nuns were dead, along with a palace guard, and the Queen had been taken hostage: had come within seconds of being killed! Aramis had saved her, pulling her away from Borel's pistol, but his action – his closeness, her look of appreciation for his heroism – had only fuelled the King's anger.

And he, d'Artagnan, had pulled the trigger to end the life of a man whose soul had been starved of love and hope for so long that his mind had crashed and burned months before.

A shadow fell across his face as someone blocked the evening sun's warmth and he looked up, startled, as Athos slid into the seat opposite him.

Wordlessly d'Artagnan passed the bottle over to his Captain and stared into his goblet, waiting for Athos to bawl him out for being so stupid. So irresponsible. It didn't matter that Borel had suffered at the Siege of Salas, or that Porthos thought that he, d'Artagnan, had done the right thing in trying to help Borel. He knew Athos would be completely within his rights to sanction him heavily for his part in the day's disasters.

But Athos simply sat, without speaking, and when d'Artagnan looked up he saw only compassion and acceptance in his calm gaze.

His mentor's serene regard seemed to unblock something inside, and all the frustrations of the day welled up inside him as he spoke without plan or preamble.

"I shot a sick and desperate man today."

His voice was low and thick with emotion. The silence curled between them as Athos waited patiently, knowing d'Artagnan had more he needed to say, but d'Artagnan was emotionally drained and while a hundred words sizzled in his brain, he couldn't seem to catch any long enough to speak them.

In the end he sighed, and spoke bitterly. "Why do I feel like I'm fighting on the wrong side?"

He didn't know he was going to say it but as soon as the words landed heavily in the space between them, he knew it was what he'd been feeling all day since seeing the desperate, starving Châtelet convicts fighting over loaves of bread in the market, and the confused intelligence in Borel's eyes.

No.

Not all day. Longer than that, he realised: much, much longer.

So many things had happened in the war, so much ... wrongness. So many times he'd followed orders knowing they didn't make sense, wondering why he was fighting against men who were the same as him, on the orders of a distant king who let his own people starve while he moved men around on a map of his kingdom, machinating for glory to act as his legacy.

d'Artagnan wasn't interested in glory or politics. He just wanted to help people who were frightened and hungry. That's why he and his father had come to Paris in the first place, after all, yet somehow he'd ended up serving the very man they'd come to petition because of the effect of his penurious taxes on their countrymen. So much had happened since then that d'Artagnan could no longer remember the sequence of decisions that had led him here, to this moment, feeling this anguish over the death of a convict and his victims. He just knew it didn't feel right: nothing felt right any more.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the look on Athos' face as d'Artagnan's words sunk in. He didn't know how long they had sat there in silence, but suddenly Athos pushed himself roughly from the bench and almost ran from the courtyard, ignoring d'Artagnan when he called to ask where he was going.

d'Artagnan's words had struck a chord for Athos, who had been struggling with the same thought but in a different context, as he tried to reconcile his growing feelings for Sylvie with the knowledge that her politics were very different from his. Her words, her passionate beliefs in the fight for equality for women and freedom from poverty, sat well with his own innate sense of justice and the value of every man, but clashed violently with his oath to the King. A clash which, increasingly, gave him sleepless nights. So when d'Artagnan expressed his own turmoil, something crystallised for Athos and he knew, with blinding clarity and a beautiful simplicity, where he really wanted to be right then.

d'Artagnan watched him go with a sense of resignation and something else that felt a little like envy, then took another sip from his cup, and wondered when he might find the energy to move.

 _Next morning, 5am_

Constance woke early. She always had, since childhood. Sister to three older brothers, from a young age she'd been responsible for providing them with breakfast and chivvying them off to school and jobs on time, while her mother worked her various jobs – seamstress, washer-woman, and sometime cook to a landless compte in Faubourg Saint-Germain, one of Paris' posher districts. Constance had often accompanied her mother to the "big houses" to help, something which had helped her deal confidently with affairs at the palace when she became the Queen's confidante.

Since the war with Spain, she'd taken on more and more of the day-to-day running of the Garrison, using all the skills she'd needed to run a home, just on a bigger scale. In the absence of the experienced musketeers, and with Tréville working long hours at the Palace as Minister for War, the young recruits had needed someone to keep them in line and most of them had accepted her role as "mother of the garrison" readily. She'd had trouble from some recruits, especially those of noble birth who objected to being bossed around by a woman – and one of low-birth at that – but Tréville's firm backing, and her close association with the Queen, soon squashed all but the most stubborn of them, and Tréville made sure that those who still disputed her role soon found themselves sent away, war or no war.

So for four years she'd risen at dawn, getting to market early enough to secure the best food for the garrison. She'd helped Serge in the kitchen and made sure the recruits were turned out smartly for muster at 8am when Tréville arrived from the Palace to give the day's orders. She'd patched them up after their training accidents, listened sympathetically to those who were homesick, and made sure their laundry was done and their rooms kept tidy. When food got scarce she'd taken over part of the training grounds behind the garrison and put the recruits to work digging it to grow vegetables. In short, she'd been invaluable during the absence of the Musketeers, and the main reason Tréville had been able to spend so much time at the Palace in his new role as First Minister.

When d'Artagnan and the others had returned from the war at last, she'd been overjoyed. It had been so hard dealing with the absence not just of her husband but of the other three who were nearly as dear to her. Letters between her and d'Artagnan had been frequent at first, full of declarations of love and longing as befitted their newly-wed status. But gradually it became harder for either of them to find words to describe their current lives without worrying the other. d'Artagnan's letters had become sporadic, with sometimes months going by before she heard from him, and then only in the blandest of terms. She'd tried not to worry, knowing that Tréville would keep her informed of any important developments in the area where they were posted. But she'd sensed d'Artagnan had withheld many details from her in his letters, and still did even now he'd returned.

The reunion with her husband of four years, after just four nights spent together since their wedding, had been everything she had dreamed of ever since he'd left for the front. But after that first reunion and their night of desperate, hungry love-making, d'Artagnan had often been strangely distant from her. If she initiated things, he would always respond but sometimes it felt to her that he was holding himself back, pleasing her but reluctant to fully open himself to her.

At first she dismissed it, seeing in his eyes something of the exhaustion he felt after so long at war. His body had always been lean and strong, but these days he was nothing but rigid muscle. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his frame, and sometimes it felt like his character had also lost its softness. He wasn't hard, as such, but she had been surprised by some of his attitudes - for example when Sophie's father died in his arms in the Châtelet. d'Artagnan of all people should have understood how devastating that would be to Sophie but he seemed to shrug it off, and it was Constance who spent hours listening to Sophie talking about her father.

d'Artagnan had also failed to return at night, more than once. Again, she tried not to worry, knowing that he would usually be with Porthos or Aramis, but she could see that the relationship between the three of them was strained since they'd returned. Porthos had found it hard to accept Aramis' reasons for not accompanying them to the front and Aramis struggled with his guilt about the same. Sometimes when she expected them to be together she would find one or the other on their own in the garrison; and sometimes d'Artagnan had not been in the garrison at all.

She stretched, shivering at the direction of her thoughts as much as because of the cool pre-dawn air. Last night they'd started to make love but d'Artagnan had rolled away from her before things had got very far. He'd never done that before and she couldn't disguise her confusion and hurt. He'd seen it in her eyes, and apologised, but had offered no explanation and she had not pushed him.

They'd talked over dinner about the events of the day but he'd been taciturn, and she could see in his eyes that there was more to the death of the convict than he'd told her. She could also see how upset he was at the death of the two nuns, but he didn't explain how Borel came to be at the convent so she was confused about the depth of his distress over people he didn't know.

She sighed. He was her husband, and he was troubled. It was her job to help him with whatever disturbed his sleep and threatened their intimacy.

Hmn. Maybe in the morning light things would be better. She turned towards his side of the bed, a wicked smile creeping onto her lips as she contemplated just how she might wake him... then she shot up in dismay at seeing his side empty.

Where was he? She checked the window: it was barely light outside. She hadn't heard him get up or sensed his absence, so she knew it must be quite a time since he'd been missing. Her stomach lurched with anxiety, even though it wasn't the first time she'd woken alone. Usually he was already in the stables or helping Serge prepare the morning bread, and she'd put his early waking down to their erratic sleeping patterns during the war. This morning was the first time she'd admitted that something more might be going on in that stubborn Gascon head of his.

Dressing swiftly, she hurried outside. The courtyard was still deserted – unsurprising at this hour. When she looked in the mess room Serge was already there, sitting nursing a cup of something hot, and growling instructions at Nicolas, a young musketeer taking his turn at kitchen duty. She watched the lad's ham-fisted attempts to knead dough for a moment, then, catching Serge's shake of the head at her mute enquiry, she nodded her thanks and headed towards the stables. Inside she paused for a moment to enjoy the warm smell of hay, horse and manure, and the sound of contented munching. So he had been here then – the horses had been given hay, and water, and it was too early for Jacques the stable-lad. She found Nuit's stall and was greeted with a soft whicker from the gentle mare. Yes, this was d'Artagnan's work: his horse was groomed and her stall had already been mucked out.

Outside the sky was lighter now and the first rays of sun were creeping over the roof as she crossed the courtyard again, heading for the training ground, a large grassy paddock surrounded by the warm sandstone walls of the garrison and its neighbouring buildings. On this southern side, closest to the garrison, lay her beds of root vegetables and several rows of fruit trees, and on the far side stood the training targets and empty weapon racks. If he wasn't here she didn't know where else to look, unless he'd returned to their rooms whilst she was in the stables or with Serge ... No. He was here.

She stopped in the archway separating the garrison from the training ground beyond, catching her breath at the sight before her.

In the centre of the field, d'Artagnan was silhouetted against a silky dawn mist that caressed his swirling body, lunging and pivoting in a graceful solitary dance as he went through his forms. She watched, riveted, as his lithe figure manoeuvred endlessly. He had rolled his sleeves up and she could see his muscular forearms, criss-crossed with the tracks of scars from a hundred fights, and the sweat running down his face.

Unless he was on a mission, or wounded, d'Artagnan was diligent in practising the drills that all swordsmen used to practice their fighting strokes, strengthen their muscles and build up stamina. Even if he was training the recruits he still made time beforehand to run through his own exercises. But she'd never seen him look so intense. Or so exhausted: he must have been out here for an hour or more – well before dawn.

Even as she watched, a furrow creasing her brow, he made a final lunge, straightened, saluted his imaginary opponent and sheathed his sword. It a wrap-up so rapid and practiced that she didn't realised he was finishing until it was too late and he'd already turned and was striding towards her, head down. For a split second she dithered, wondering if she could slip back into the courtyard before he noticed her, but then it was too late and he'd looked up.

For a moment his stride faltered, as if he'd been caught out, then he came towards her with an odd look on his face. Guilt? Or maybe embarrassment. She moved to meet him, a welcome smile teasing her lips, then stopped dead in shock as he strode straight past her without stopping.

"d'Artagnan? d'Artagnan, wait!" She called after him, hating the note of desperate entreaty in her voice as she hurried after him. "I wanted to... d'Artagnan!"

He stopped so suddenly that she almost bumped into his back. "What? What did you want, Constance?" He spoke without turning, his voice sounding taut and controlled.

"I... " she trailed off, not even sure what she wanted to say. She just wanted to make things right between them but she hadn't expected him to sound so hostile. She didn't even understand where things were going wrong, or why, but she hated it. She tried again. "I just want to understand what's wrong, d'Artagnan. I just – I want my husband back!"

She saw his back stiffen at her words, and then he strode off again without a word. She sagged back against a wall, watching him disappear into the stables, and wondered what she had said that was so wrong.

* * *

An hour later the courtyard was a different place, as the musketeers gathered for breakfast before morning muster. Constance had stood, frozen in place, until she saw d'Artagnan emerge on Nuit and take off through the archway at a fast canter, then she'd sighed, and headed slowly towards the kitchen to help Serge prepare breakfast. Now she bustled around dumping platters of bread and honey on the tables, pouring drinks, cuffing Fabien across the back of his head when he complained that his mead was cold, and chiding Henri who turned up in a rush without his weapons.

In the middle of the activity Aramis and Porthos strolled towards their usual table, walking in step and chatting amiably, the discord that sometimes flared between them nowhere in sight on this fine summer's morning. As they sat, both looked around automatically for d'Artagnan, but seeing Constance Aramis waved her over.

Scowling slightly, Constance swept up a couple of empty plates en route and stalked across to the pair. "Yes?" she snapped. Aramis blinked at her tone and Porthos, who looked to be nursing a minor hangover, looked up in surprise.

Aramis didn't waste words. "What's wrong, Constance? You look out of sorts this morning."

"What's wrong is that I'm busy, and I don't have time to be summoned to wait on you like a... like a... "

"A waitress?" supplied Porthos, helpfully, reaching across the table to pick up a cup in the hopes that it might contain liquid, then yelping as Constance slapped his hand away.

Aramis chuckled, remembering a time when it was he who Constance seemed to delight in slapping, then shut up hastily as she swung round to glare at him. He hurried to explain himself, keeping a wary eye on her hands. "I was hoping you could enlighten us as to d'Artagnan's whereabouts, since I don't yet see him in the courtyard and muster is barely fifteen minutes away." He smiled his most charming smile, which faded as her glare intensified.

"I have no idea, and less inclination to find out," she snapped, then turned and swept off leaving the two men staring blankly at each other.

"This is not good," Aramis said slowly.

"Nah, not good at all. I'll go and get it, save time," said Porthos, looking worried and pushing himself off the bench with a grunt.

Aramis looked even blanker. "Go and get... what?" he asked.

"Breakfast, o' course! Can't do muster without something inside me." Porthos gave Aramis a scandalised look and headed determinedly towards the kitchen.

Aramis chuckled again. Things might not be perfect between them yet, but you couldn't help but love Porthos with a hangover. Then his grin faded as he remembered Constance's words, and he hastened to his feet. He had to find out what was going on between the pair of them; he had a feeling they were going to need some help. A lot of help.

* * *

Aramis caught up with Constance just as she turned into the doorway in the corner of the courtyard which led to their quarters. She heard the courtyard door creak as she hitched her skirts to head up the stone steps to their room, and turned so quickly she almost stumbled. Even in the dim interior there was no mistaking the look of disappointment that flashed across her features. She looked away quickly, resting a hand on the wall and looking down at her feet.

"What do you want? I've already told you, I don't know where he is."

Aramis hesitated, aware he was about to cross a line and that they had little time to talk before morning muster. But she sounded forlorn, and he was worried about d'Artagnan, so he braced himself and dived in.

"Will you tell me what's wrong between you?" he asked, gently.

"Nothing is wrong!" she snapped, turning to head up the stairs, but there was a wobble in her voice. Aramis moved to the bottom of the stairs and crossed his arms, propping a shoulder on the wall and crocking a foot on the first stair as he watched her walk slowly up.

"Then why are you crying?" His voice was soft and full of concern.

"I'm not crying...!" Her steps slowed until she stood motionless, her head bowed. Aramis waited, patiently. She wasn't one for tears, this Constance that they all admired so much; she was feisty and quick-witted, fearless and tough, good-natured and loving. d'Artagnan had been besotted with her since they'd first met. She was clearly the perfect match for him, and once they'd finally overcome all the obstacles in their way they should have been the perfect couple. Would have been, surely, if the war with Spain had not been announced on the very day of their marriage.

Quite apart from the fact that he could see d'Artagnan struggling with his demons since returning from the battlefront a few weeks earlier, seeing Constance so lost and unhappy seemed just _wrong,_ and he was determined to help if he could.

She stood motionless for a moment longer, then suddenly sank gracelessly to the ground, turning so she could settle on the steps half way up, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on her hands. She didn't look at him but he could see the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. He waited again, and breathed an internal sigh of relief when she started to speak.

"He's so different." Her voice was so quiet that Aramis had to strain to hear her words. "When he first came home it was just wonderful to have him back!" The warmth in her voice as she remembered his homecoming was unmistakeable, but her smile faded quickly as she continued. "I thought... I had worried, all the time he was away, that he would be different, that it wouldn't be the same between us but that first night... it was better, Aramis! Oh, I know he'd changed, he looked – taller! And older. More confident somehow. He had new scars everywhere..." Her voice trailed off, remembering how she'd traced their lines in the dark, that first night together, exploring his new body with her fingers. "But it felt as if no time had passed, and I was so happy!"

"And then?" prompted Aramis, shifting from the wall and coming up to sit on the steps, not too close, but close enough so he could hear her better. He carefully didn't look at her, knowing such intimacy would be hard enough without seeing his reactions.

"He's been ... distant." Her words came slowly, as if it were the first time she'd put her thoughts into words. "Sometimes he's lovely, and funny and kind just as he always was. But sometimes – increasingly so – he just sits and stares into the fire in the evening. He doesn't sleep, or not for long anyway, just a couple of hours some nights. He has dreams, he sweats and tosses, then he wakes, or I wake him because he sounds so distressed. He won't tell me what he dreamed. Usually he says it's nothing, he's just getting used to being back, and he gets up and goes to the stables or just... disappears. He doesn't explain; he's just silent. Out there" – she waved a hand at the courtyard – "he's fine; he jokes with you and trains the cadets and all of the youngsters look up to him – and half the veterans too, I've seen them – but in here... in here he's not the same as the man I married!"

Aramis winced and she shot him a look.

"I'm sorry, Aramis. I shouldn't be telling you all this."

"On the contrary, I'm glad you have. You need to talk to someone and I would prefer it was me rather than d'Artagnan while your emotions are running high... What?" She'd stiffened as he spoke, and he glanced at her, concerned.

"I _have_ talked to d'Artagnan. Or rather tried to, this morning. He was up well before dawn and by the time I found him he'd fed and watered all the horses and was training – but when he finished, he just ignored me. And I tried to explain my worries, that he wasn't the same man I married, but he just..." She broke off as Aramis hissed in an audible breath at her words.

"You actually told him that?" he asked, urgently.

"Yes – why not? I needed him to understand how different he is, and how scared I am." She faltered as Aramis surged to his feet, heading straight down the stairs before remembering his manners and turning back to offer her his hand. She took it and rose, smoothing her skirts distractedly, waiting for his answer.

"That's the one thing of which he was most afraid. Oh, dearest Constance! That's the _one_ thing he never wanted to hear from you!" Leaving her frozen on the steps, he hurried down and disappeared into the hubbub of the courtyard.

* * *

 _I am so stoked to be posting this story at last – it's been brewing in my head for a long time! But I am also very nervous about it. It's turning out different from my others, which were more of an adventurous whump-romp (is that a thing?). This one will be longer and mostly darker, and I'm nervous about reactions. So if you like it, please, please don't be silent, because I would really welcome the reassurance of feedback. If I don't enjoy a story I prefer not to review rather than to say something negative, so to me silence sounds like indifference at best, or dislike at worst. So if you can, please take a moment to tell me what you think. Right, end of plea. I will update regularly so the next chapter will be up in a couple of days. Thanks for reading!_

 _PS Sorry if you're looking for chapter 2 - I got in a muddle trying to repost the story as it didn't appear in the list of stories at all the first time. Having accidentally posted the same chapter twice, hence the "chapter 2 alert some of you may have received" it still doesn't show up so I've had to delete it and repost (Pallysdeeks, Greenlips, thanks for reviewing and sorry your reviews will have disappeared!). Fingers crossed no more glitches and I promise the second chapter will be up soon for real. I am going to lie down in a darkened room now. xx_


	2. Chapter 2: Got Lost, Can't Be Found

_I don't think this story is showing on the list of Musketeers stories for some reason (the chapter title is very apt!). Anyway I'm very grateful to those of you who have found it and reviewed – many thanks!_

 _In case you wonder where this is coming from, I was struck by the difference in d'Artagnan in Season 3. Watch any of the episodes again – not just 3.5 – and there are many times when his expression is just grim and bleak. I have always been fascinated by war and its effects on those who face it, so this story is my way of exploring what might have caused those changes in d'Artagnan. I also bank on the fact that you will have watched at least the start of series 3 and know that Porthos struggles to accept Aramis after he turned his back on the Musketeers at the end of series 2. But first a bit of Athos which I hope you enjoy._

 **Chapter Two: Got Lost, Can't Be Found**

 _Paris, 1636, morning_

Athos walked slowly back from the refugee camp, deep in thought. He had left the garrison last night in unseemly haste after d'Artagnan's words had struck a chord. He had found Sylvie, and the look on her face told him that his thoughts were written clearly on his own. There had been no talk, no hesitation. Until then she had been prepared to wait for him to be ready to commit himself to her, and somehow yesterday's events had driven him to that decision, although he was not aware, at the time, of having debated or come to a conclusion. All he had known, last night as d'Artagnan spoke of his doubts about what they were fighting for, was that he wanted – no, needed – to be with Sylvie.

Now in the fresh air of the early morning, with his muscles still aching pleasantly from their love-making and an unaccustomed warmth in the pit of his belly every time he visualised Sylvie, he tried to rationalise what he had done. Her politics were extreme and her methods dangerous. She had, apparently, no concept of subtlety or compromise; her beliefs were strong – rigid, in fact – and she was not prepared to compromise. And yet... and yet she was able to love him, even knowing his past as a compte, and his present position as Captain of the King's Musketeers. She disagreed with everything he represented, and yet between the two of them it did not seem to matter.

He had fought against the attraction from the start, knowing that a relationship between them would be fraught with danger and discord whilst he remained a Musketeer, sworn to uphold all the iniquitous laws that she campaigned against. So what had he done? And why had d'Artagnan's words pushed him into her arms?

He knew why. Because although they had sworn fealty to the king, that loyalty was in spite of, rather than because of, the character of the particular king they served now. He would lay down his life to protect King Louis, but that was because of what he represented – the laws of the country Athos loved so deeply, upheld by a king appointed by God. No matter that this particular king was highly flawed and his interpretation of those laws suspect. Athos' job was to serve whoever held the position of king, and if he disagreed with his politics or methods... well, sometimes there were ways of subtly mitigating the effects of his rule.

So after all his hesitation it had not been so difficult to bridge this gulf between his and Sylvie's beliefs. They both had a strong sense of justice and fought – literally, in Athos' case – to protect the innocent, the underdog, those who could not speak up for themselves. They differed only in the way they had chosen to fight for the people. Athos used his uniform and position to speak up for justice; Sylvie used her leaflets and her soap-box. That this put them on different sides of the law, one supporting and one opposing Louis, was inconvenient, to say the least. But as d'Artagnan had said so succinctly, sometimes it was hard to remember why they fought for Louis, when that put them at odds with the other values they all held so dear.

Sighing, he knew that he was avoiding the decision by thinking only about values and what they were trying to achieve, rather than how they were doing it. Sooner or later he would have to choose a path forward. He could not continue to give his heart to Sylvie whilst working to uphold the establishment that Louis represented and she rebelled against so strongly.

He looked up as he reached the garrison, drawing to a halt and trying to clear his mind before entering. The sky was clear and a deep blue, and a few brilliant white clouds drifted slowly across his vision, indicating it would be another fine, warm day. He sighed again. Sometimes his dedication to king, country and duty seemed all a bit irrelevant. For the first time in many years, he'd had a glimpse of a different kind of life, and had found it just a little bit tempting.

Enough! He had a job to do, and now was no time to be wavering. The Musketeers were war-weary and their numbers depleted, the new cadets were mostly far from battle-ready, yet Paris lived under the constant threat of Lorraine's army which was massing on the border and he could not afford to think about anything but how to keep his men, and the city, safe.

* * *

Turning into the garrison he found the courtyard teeming with Musketeers and cadets. Before he'd got more than two paces into the yard, Porthos had everyone snapping to attention with a single command. Athos nodded his appreciation as he walked past him to the steps, climbing them three at a time to the first landing, and turning to look down on his men. His eyes fell instantly on the gap between Porthos and Aramis, where d'Artagnan should be.

He quashed the feeling of guilt that surged within him as he realised d'Artagnan was missing. He had known the young Musketeer was sorely troubled, last night, had sat with the intention of allowing him to talk it all through, suspecting that d'Artagnan might be reacting so strongly to Borel's story and death because of his own experiences in the war. But then d'Artagnan had spoken and the words had crashed into his head with such clarity that he could do nothing but react to the deep need the words sparked within him. He'd abandoned d'Artagnan without another thought, and now he was absent from muster, something which, for d'Artagnan, was unthinkable.

He flicked his gaze between his two oldest friends. Both looked back, impassively, but he could see concern in both expressions, as well as a crease between Porthos' eyes that suggested the aftermath of too much drinking the night before: concern, but no indication that they knew where he was.

He could do nothing yet, with all the men standing waiting for him to begin his inspection. Sighing, he turned his attention to them, checking them each minutely as he had learned to do at the front. It was surprising how many men forgot something crucial when inexperienced, or under pressure, and part of the reason for muster was to make it so automatic that, in an emergency, the men would be ready to fight at a moment's notice without need for thought, or orders, or inspection. Fresh from the war, he understood far more than before just how important it was to keep up the standard of preparedness. Nothing escaped his notice.

His eyes fell on Clotaire and he frowned as the burly Musketeer dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably. Athos held still for a long moment, barely noticing the rising silence as the men stopped rustling and murmuring, realisation dawning amongst them that Athos might be on the war path.

He walked deliberately slowly back down the steps and strode directly into their midst, trusting that the ranks would part for him. They did.

Stopping in front of Clotaire he stood relaxed in posture but with an icy cool expression.

"Are we keeping you up?"

There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the courtyard, which stilled in an instant as Athos took a step back from Clotaire and glanced around his men. Aramis suppressed a smile. Tréville had been ruthless in his command, not above raising his voice if pushed: an "in your face" kind of Captain. Athos had the same effect just by looking.

Clotaire gulped, swaying slightly, as Athos stepped close again.

"I asked you a question."

"Um... "

"Perhaps we are keeping you from your table at the Wren? Or a warm bed?"

Only a couple of titters this time, quickly hushed, as the men around strained to hear Athos' quiet voice.

Athos sighed with a tiny shake of his head. "Go and sober up. I don't want to see you again until you are fit to work."

He stepped away from Clotaire again and raised his voice. "In case any of you think I'm being lenient, you may be sure that I am not. I have a long memory, and an equally long list of very undesirable missions."

He had everyone's total attention now. He turned to walk along the rest of that row. At the end, without looking back, he flung over his shoulder "Clotaire! Why are you still here?" The big musketeer jumped and then stumbled his way out of line, looking as if he was about to throw up.

Athos stopped in front of another man. "Deguire, where is your belt?"

"I didn't have time to ... er .. to get it."

"I did not ask why you are not wearing it; I asked where it is."

Deguire dropped his eyes. "It's in my room, sir."

"Then where did _you_ spend the night, without your belt? Or your weapons?"

Deguire's Adams apple worked, convulsively. "I... er..."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "I don't think I want to know, do I?"

"No, sir."

Athos nodded. "Go and get dressed properly."

Deguire looked worried. "My room is ten minutes from here, Sir."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Then you'd better run, hadn't you?"

Dequire hesitated, then pushed through the ranks and disappeared through the archway at a run.

"This is fun," commented Aramis quietly out of the corner of his mouth to Porthos, who grunted in reply. Athos immediately changed direction and walked to where the pair stood smartly to attention. He didn't stop, or comment, as he passed, but his fleeting gaze gave an icy warning and Aramis found himself standing a bit straighter and feeling ridiculously like a recruit on his first parade.

Athos hauled two more men out of the ranks: Renaud ("Egg for breakfast, I see," gazing impassively at a yellow stain on his doublet) and Hudon ("There's a reason why no one is standing near you, Hudon. When did you last take a bath?").

Finally finishing his inspection he mounted the steps again and turned to face the remaining Musketeers and recruits.

"You may have noticed that the four I picked out are all war veterans. Let this be a warning to all of you. Serving your King and country with distinction, as all four did, is no excuse for sloppy behaviour and will win you no favours here. Ask yourself if you are the best you can be, and if the answer is no, be sure I will notice, and you had better have a _very_ good reason. I will not tolerate anything but your best efforts – no matter who you are."

The silence was palpable now, every man listening intently. Some looked nervous, and several of the newer recruits had gone pale, but all were giving Athos their full attention.

He nodded, slowly, then looked to Porthos. "Let me know when the men are finally all present and correct." He didn't wait for an answer but turned immediately and walked up the rest of the stairs, disappearing into his office.

There was a collective sigh of relief around the courtyard, quickly stilled when Porthos stepped forwards and swung around. "You have not been dismissed!" he barked. The men looked to each other, and Lemoine dared to question. "Do we just stand here then, until the others are back? That could take an hour, at the pace Hudon bathes!"

There was an eruption of laughter, fuelled by relief and nervous energy. Porthos drew himself up to his full height and simply glared, and it died away. "Your prescience astounds me, Lemoine," he snapped.

Lemoine looked slightly confused, possibly wondering what prescience was, but sensibly decided not to ask.

It was not actually an hour, but it was a good twenty minutes before all four men had returned, panting, Clotaire with dripping wet hair where he'd most likely employed Athos' bucket trick to wake himself up, and Renaud with a dark patch of water on his shirt where the egg stain had been, but all looking smarter and more alert. Porthos sent a recruit to knock on the office door and scamper back down, looking relieved, when Athos emerged promptly.

Surveying his men once more from the landing, Athos nodded his approval.

"Right, orders for the day. Porthos, I want you to put the recruits through their paces. You'll need some help: take Clotaire, Hudon, Lemoine and Renaud with you. And don't go easy on them."

He didn't clarify whether by "them" he meant the recruits or the four 'volunteers', and Porthos didn't ask. He didn't have to.

Athos quickly named other musketeers for various duties, and ended by looking at Aramis. "You're with me this morning, Aramis. The rest of you, dismissed!"

Athos had never seen the courtyard empty so fast as everyone disappeared off to collect weapons, mount up or simply to look busy before Athos found anything further to displease him.

Aramis came to meet him at the foot of the steps. "Were you this scary during the war?" he asked, smiling.

"I didn't have to be," replied Athos drily, and Aramis had the grace to look abashed. "No – I don't suppose you did."

"Where is he, then?" Athos asked the question he'd been wanting to ask ever since he'd arrived back from the Palace.

"We don't know. He was up really early; Constance said he'd already fed the horses and was training when she found him at first light. She's worried about him, and it seems they had words, then he took off on Nuit."

"When was this?"

"An hour or so before muster." Porthos had come up behind them without either man noticing, and Athos could hear suppressed anger in his voice. He exchanged a glance with Aramis and saw only concern there as he turned to face Porthos.

"Is there a problem?" Athos could tell from looking at him that Porthos was close to exploding, and he had a pretty good idea why.

"Yes, _Athos_ , there is." Porthos stepped closer. Athos tried not to react to the insulting way Porthos spoke his name. Clearly this conversation was going to be 'unofficial'. "Why is _he_ with you to look for d'Artagnan – I assume that's your plan? Or are you just going to leave 'im to sort 'imself out?"

Athos bit down on his own anger. "Is that really what you think I would do?" he asked, calmly, ignoring the first question for now and addressing the easier second.

Porthos sniffed, and shook his head, but then the anger rose again on his features. "Why Aramis?" he growled again. "Was 'e there, before? Nah, 'e was tucked up safe in his monastery, wasn't 'e? Does 'e 'ave a clue what's going on in d'Artagnan's 'ead? Nah, 'e doesn't. So _why is 'e with you_ , _and I'm_ _with the recruits_ , eh? Tell me that, Athos!" He was virtually hissing into Athos' face now and it was clearly not a request.

Athos was suddenly aware of eyes watching them. The conversation had been conducted entirely sotto voce but their body language made it clear it was not a normal discussion between friends. Porthos' hands were twitching at his sides and he looked as if he wanted to thump one of them – or both.

Aramis cleared his throat to speak but Athos snapped a look at him even as Porthos swivelled his head to glare, and Aramis quickly took a step back, hating the role he had to play while Porthos was still struggling to accept him back. He dropped his eyes and briefly debated simply walking away, but then hated himself for that thought, too. This was about d'Artagnan, not him and Porthos.

Athos seemed to have the same thought. "Porthos, old friend," he started. Porthos turned his glare back Athos' way but Aramis thought his expression softened a little bit. "I need one of you here with the recruits, and Aramis is not yet fit enough to get my message across to those four idiots."

There was a moment when Aramis thought this would work, then he saw Porthos lean forward ever so slightly, so he seemed to tower over Athos. "I am not stupid!" he hissed. "There's something you're not telling me."

Athos took a step back but only so he could see around Porthos' sturdy frame. "You have your orders!" he suddenly barked out. "Any man still within my sight in the next thirty seconds will live to regret it!" There was the frantic sound of scurrying behind Aramis, then within twenty seconds such a complete silence had descended on the courtyard that he wanted to laugh, but sadly he couldn't risk it: Porthos was far too wound up to enjoy the joke.

"Porthos, I have my reasons for deploying you both this way. Will you trust me?" he asked, quietly. Only the tight muscle in his jaw betrayed his irritation that he even had to ask this question.

Porthos suddenly deflated, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know I do," he answered just as quietly. He stepped back, flicked an unfathomable glance Aramis' way, and strode off towards the training grounds without another word.

Athos looked at Aramis who was puffing out his cheeks in exaggerated relief. "We have to sort this before it gets out of hand, my friend."

"How?" Aramis was all out of charm, shaken by the vitriol in Porthos' attitude towards him.

"That's down to d'Artagnan. None of us can answer for him. He has to be ready to talk."

"Really? You think this is about d'Artagnan?"

Athos looked at Aramis properly, hearing the undisguised hurt in his voice. "Not all of it. But it has to start with him. Porthos has... he had to look out for him for a long time. He's still very protective and he doesn't understand your part in this. Neither do I, for that matter, but I have an inkling ... If I'm right, it has to be up to d'Artagnan to explain. Everything else will follow."

Aramis wished he felt as confident, but nodded, knowing he had to trust Athos.

"Have you any idea where he might have gone?" Athos' tone conveyed hope more than expectation.

"Actually, I do have some thoughts. He's on Nuit, so I'm thinking the water meadows by the east gate, or the lake."

"Good." Athos nodded his approval and turned to mount the steps again.

"He'll be fine." Aramis hoped he sounded convincing.

* * *

Aramis checked the lake first. It was half an hour from the east gate and a favourite destination for all of them, but as far as he knew none of the others had visited since returning to Paris. It was a place for leisure and laughter and none of them had had the time – nor the inclination – to escape there, with Paris in such turmoil.

Turning at the top of the hill he could see straight away that no one had taken the path down to the lake that morning; the grass was still glistening with dew and anyone riding through would have left clear tracks.

He paused for a moment, drinking in the beauty of the place and remembering when they'd come here with d'Artagnan while he was recovering from injuries incurred while protecting the Queen.* Tréville had brought Constance – still married then to Bonacieux – with gifts from the Queen. He, Porthos and Athos had retreated to give the two youngsters some time alone, and Aramis smiled as he remembered larking around with Porthos, trying to see what was happening on the picnic rug. He and Porthos had both ended up on the ground, bickering and laughing together as d'Artagnan glared up at them.

He heaved a deep sigh. Those times seemed so far away now and he honestly feared he and Porthos would never regain that easy camaraderie. He had hurt Porthos deeply by keeping secrets from him regarding the Queen and the Dauphin, and through standing by his promise to God rather than his Musketeer vow. Allowing Porthos to go to war without him had driven a four-year chasm between them, not just of time apart but hundreds of moments of danger and comradeship that they would never share. He didn't see how they could bridge that chasm. Whenever there were moments of shared danger or teasing, like in the ranks that morning – he'd _known_ what Porthos was thinking – he would have a feeling of relief, of homecoming, of 'yes, I remember this!' But it was usually fleeting, and then there would always come a reminder of what had been lost. And now his other secret was coming between them for Porthos was not stupid, as he'd said to Athos: he knew he was missing something and it was hurting him.

Aramis shook himself from his thoughts. Right now, the only thing he could do was find d'Artagnan and bring him back to the garrison. As Athos said, the rest would follow. Hopefully.

He headed back towards Paris, this time taking a small path down towards the water meadows south of the East gate. As the track opened onto the wide, flat land bordering the Seine his heart leapt as he saw the unmistakeable figure cantering in slow circles, with the wide Seine as a backdrop. He paused for a moment, admiring the young Musketeer's horsemanship as he worked her, man and horse in perfect balance.

As he watched, d'Artagnan slowed the pace to a trot, then sent Nuit forward into a gorgeous extended trot, her forelegs flicking out straight in front of her and seeming to float in the air before each hoof landed, barely touching the grass, or so it seemed. Her neck was arched, her tail held high so it streamed out behind her and d'Artagnan – sleeves rolled up and sweat gleaming on his forearms in the strong sunlight – sat lightly in the saddle, completely concentrating on her and oblivious to his audience.

Finally the pair slowed, then turned and headed towards him, d'Artagnan patting the mare's neck, still focussed on her until they were almost upon Aramis, then suddenly looking up and looking startled at the sight of Aramis leaning crossed hands on the pommel of his horse, one leg cocked across Fidget's neck.

"Aramis – what's wrong? Why are you here?"

"Nothing's wrong. We missed you at muster, that's all."

d'Artagnan looked momentarily confused, as if he'd forgotten what muster was, then he grimaced and looked away, hands fiddling with his reins.

"d'Artagnan, I spoke to Constance just now. She was worried about you. To be honest, so am I." Aramis wasn't sure if bluntness was the right approach, but he couldn't see any point in prevaricating. It would be obvious to the Gascon that he was worried or he would not have tracked him down to the water meadows. He waited, keeping his face neutral and his body relaxed, and was eventually rewarded by a sigh from the Gascon, before his head came up, chin raised in a gesture of defiance that Aramis knew well. It meant d'Artagnan had made a decision and was determined to see it through. The only question was: what was it he'd decided?

They rode back in a companionable silence. Aramis knew d'Artagnan would talk when he was ready, and was happy to enjoy the warm sunshine and the familiar bustle as they rode through the gate and entered the busy streets leading to the garrison.

Just before they turned into the gates, d'Artagnan drew rein and waited until Aramis had stopped his own mare. "Are you hungry?"

Aramis blinked. It was not quite the question he'd been expecting. "Always." It was barely two hours since breakfast, but a soldier was always ready to eat, and he was most definitely a soldier again.

d'Artagnan nodded to himself. "Could you find the others and invite them to lunch? I'll go and warn Constance." And, without waiting for an answer, he nudged Nuit forward and disappeared through the archway.

* * *

* see my first story Hiraeth


	3. Chapter 3: Stick to Your Guns

_A huge thank you to the lovely CoffeeCup35 who solved the mystery of why this story wasn't showing on the Musketeers page – I'd rated it M (being cautious, for the later chapters) and my filter was set to T - K+. If you don't know what that means, join the club – I didn't even realise there were settings and filters! I've changed the rating to K+ now so hopefully more readers will be able to find it._

 _Here we explore some of the underlying tensions and d'Artagnan spends an entire chapter trying to find a starting point. Sorry it takes him a while but please bear with him; other problems get in the way - and he is a man, after all._

 **Chapter Three: Stick to Your Guns**

 _1636: The Garrison, midday_

It was several hours before they'd all convened in the d'Artagnan's quarters, nestled up in the corner of the garrison. Porthos was the last to arrive, having had an entertaining morning encouraging the cadets to whop the seasoned musketeers Athos had picked on at morning muster. Sniffing the air appreciatively as he climbed the steps three at a time, he found Athos and Aramis already seated at a table groaning with crockery and side-dishes of herb bread, corn cobs, beans braised in garlic... He advanced on the table rubbing his hands in glee, only to be brought up short by Constance intercepting him with a sharp nod towards the basin under the window. "Have you washed?" she asked in the tone of voice that suggested she already knew the answer.

Porthos grinned meekly and changed direction, giving his hands a thorough scrub in the warm soapy water. He wouldn't put it past her to inspect his finger nails.

d'Artagnan carried a steaming dish to the centre of the table as Porthos seated himself. "What are we having?" he asked, eagerly, leaning forward to look.

"Chicken cassoulet," d'Artagnan answered, seating himself as Constance started to dish it out. Porthos beamed, seeing golden beans, root vegetables and chunks of chicken smothered in a rich, spicy sauce filling his plate.

"Constance, if you weren't already married I'd be down on one knee," Aramis complimented her, to everyone's amusement. After that there was no talk apart from the odd request to pass a dish, pour more wine or Constance's admonishment for Porthos to stop helping himself to seconds until everyone else had finished their first helping.

It felt almost like old times, thought Athos, looking around at the four familiar faces. But he knew better: under the easy chat lay a gulf of mistrust between Porthos and Aramis, and a river of pain for those who'd been at war. Even Constance was different, more brusque somehow, as she'd had to learn to cope on her own in very trying circumstances. She'd virtually run the garrison under Tréville's guidance, having to earn the respect of the cadets through her own hard work. He sighed, knowing that yesterday's events had brought things to a head for d'Artagnan at least, and wondering how they would begin to heal the fractures between them produced by their years apart.

At last all declared themselves replete, even Porthos. They all helped Constance clear the table, and she put water to boil ready to wash the dishes. There was a comfortable silence as she bustled around, tidying, until d'Artagnan cleared his throat.

"I think ..." he began, and then stopped. "I would like to – no, I need to – explain some things." Another pause. "It's... there are some things getting in the way. In the way of ... " He ground to a halt again, twisting his hands together.

"Of our friendship?" prompted Aramis.

Porthos turned to stare at him. "Nothin' wrong with our friendship," he countered, putting a slight emphasis on 'our'. Aramis' eyes flickered but he said nothing, tipping his head towards d'Artagnan in invitation.

d'Artagnan looked disconcertedly between the two of them, then to Athos who seemed content to observe, his eyes giving nothing away. d'Artagnan visibly hesitated then plunged on. "Actually, Porthos, I think our friendship is one of the casualties." He could see Porthos bristling at this and hurried on. "I just mean that when there are secrets – well, no, not secrets as such but – um, things left unsaid, unshared – it is... it... Oh, _mon Dieu_! This is hard."

Aramis nodded, sympathetically. "Finding a good starting point is often the hardest part."

"Admitting somethin's wrong would be a good start!" Porthos put in, a little too loudly and looking pointedly at Aramis. Everyone looked at him and Athos sighed. It would seem there was more than one agenda around the table.

Constance had been moving quietly around in the background but she stepped forward now, instinctively knowing her four favourite men needed some help. Desperate herself to know what was going on in d'Artagnan's head, she was also aware of the niggling tension between the two oldest friends and knew it wouldn't help d'Artagnan. Standing behind d'Artagnan she fixed Porthos and Aramis with her best glare.

"This is d'Artagnan's table and he invited you all here. I think he has something to say and if he's finding it difficult, we need to listen all the harder."

Porthos had the grace to look slightly embarrassed and the others nodded. Mollified, she put her hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Much as I want to hear what you say, would it help if I wasn't here? There is plenty for me to do outside – "

He cut her off, catching her hand in his and pulling her to sit on the chair next to him. "I have a lot to say, and you, of all people, need to hear it."

He turned to face the others. "Some of you know parts, but not all of it. And Constance knows the least, which is something I need to put right." He breathed in deeply. "I just don't know where to start."

After a long pause Constance looked around, seeing the same hesitancy in everyone's eyes. No one was quite sure what d'Artagnan had in mind to recount, so it seemed they had the same problem as her husband. When a story has been so long in the weaving, which thread do you pull on first to unravel it?

"What about starting with yesterday?" she suggested. "Why did Borel's actions upset you so much, d'Artagnan?" He had been distant for weeks since his return, but this extreme anxiety and restlessness, the sense that he was struggling even to breath, had only started yesterday and she was sure it had to be connected.

He grimaced. "That's really the end of it," he told her softly after a moment. There was another silence in the room.

Aramis stirred. "Am I right in thinking this has to do with when you were taken captive during the war?"

Three heads swivelled towards him at his bluntness, only d'Artagnan keeping still. No one spoke though, so he carried on, carefully. "If so, then the best place might be to start with something simple. Factual. Have you talked about how you were captured?"

Porthos couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Course 'e 'as. You just weren't there when 'e talked."

A sharp intake of breath from Constance betrayed her disquiet at the clear aggression in Porthos' voice, but d'Artagnan squeezed her hand in warning and she kept quiet. It was Athos who stepped in. "To be fair, Porthos, he didn't ever talk much about it. Even after he'd returned..." He stopped, suddenly, flushing slightly, then carried on: "... after you'd recovered, d'Artagnan, it was such a chaotic time at the front that we didn't ever hear much from you."

Unexpectedly, it was Aramis' eyes that Athos sought, and Aramis who nodded his encouragement.

Porthos felt himself bristling again. There were so many undercurrents around the table and he felt out of his depths. "What are you sayin'? We didn't 'ave time for 'im?"

d'Artagnan shook his head forcefully. "No Porthos, I always knew you would listen – you both would. I just wasn't ready to talk then. I'm still not – well, not sure about ... but I think I have to."

Aramis now: "You know my feelings on it, my friend. Much better to speak openly amongst friends, so they can understand and – "

A snort from Porthos interrupted him. "You are a fine one to talk about speaking openly, aren't you?"

Aramis looked as if he was struggling to keep calm and there was another long silence which Porthos eventually broke. "Maybe we should go, leave you an' Constance to talk." He looked at Athos for assent but Athos was looking at Aramis, who in turn was watching d'Artagnan intently. He felt his earlier anger resurface. Aramis knew nothing of this, so why was Athos waiting for his opinion? Because that's what it looked like to Porthos. Even as this thought flashed into his mind he saw Aramis stir and shake his head slightly at Athos.

"What's going on?" Porthos couldn't contain himself any longer. "I know when I'm missing sommat and I've 'ad enough! Enough of secrets, enough of those looks... we've been 'ere before, ain't we, and look 'ow that ended!"

"I'm not going anywhere this time. It's not about me, Porthos my friend", Aramis countered gently, reaching over to touch Porthos' arm lightly. He turned to d'Artagnan. "Tell us what you want us to know, mon ami. We're in your hands."

Porthos couldn't seem to stop himself. "I've just about 'ad enough of you sittin' there all smug like you know it all. You weren't _there_ , Aramis, you weren't _there_ to 'elp 'im with the pain or the nightmares or everythin' that came after. You just turned your back on us and kept safe in your bloody monastery and you WEREN'T THERE! So don't tell me or 'im what to say or when to speak. You didn't speak about your feelings when you fell for her Majesty, you didn't – "

"Porthos." The voice behind him was soft yet compelling, and Porthos responded instantly, stopping in mid-flow. d'Artagnan hadn't moved from his seat but he was none-the-less imposing as he leaned forward and looked him square in the eye for the first time in what felt like a long time.

"This stops now," he said quietly. "I should have... I should have explained many things, before now. Before it got – like this." He sighed deeply and looked around the room at the eyes fixed on his face, expressions ranging from surprise on Porthos' face, to calm acceptance from Athos, concern from Aramis, and apprehension on Constance. He rose and took her hand, turning to face the others.

"I hoped that I had left everything behind. You all know enough to have helped me at different times, but ..." He turned to Constance and caught her other hand in his, gently rubbing his fingers over hers. "I had hoped to spare you. I didn't... it's not that I didn't trust you ... " He faltered, as if not sure whether his words spoke the truth of the muddle in his mind.

"Some things are hard to hear, especially for a loved one," interjected Aramis softly.

Porthos stirred, as if to object: his expression said clearly 'what do you know of it?' but this time he kept quiet, seeing d'Artagnan's dark eyes on his, pleading with him to be patient. Porthos nodded reluctantly and was rewarded with a half smile.

d'Artagnan took a breath and started to pace around the room, visibly struggling with words. "Yesterday, with Borel, it hit me hard... finding out he was in the Siege of Salas. Brujon asking us about it... what people had to do to survive. And he _didn't_ survive, not really. Not his mind. Just his body ... And I knew that ... that could have been me." His voice trailed off as he saw Constance's expression: pity mingled with compassion in her eyes.

"You see – _that_ is why I don't want you to know!" he burst out despairingly, spreading his arms wide and striding over to her. "That look on your face! I don't need your pity! I want to be..." He stopped, screwing up his face in torment, then whispered so quietly that they all had to strain to hear him. "I want to be the man you married. I want – I wanted – everything to be the same, when we got back here. I didn't want to bring it all with me... I can't do this, Aramis, I _can't._ "

Again, Porthos wanted to ask why he was looking to Aramis for advice when Aramis knew the least of all of them, but the room was hushed and d'Artagnan's distress was so evident that he managed to keep quiet as Aramis answered.

"Yes, you can, my friend. You know you can: you've done it before."

Constance looked at him sharply, reeling from her husband's distress but still alert to every nuance. "Done what? What do you mean?"

Aramis hesitated, looking at d'Artagnan, who was staring at his fingers, twisting them together and pulling at them constantly. Aramis frowned but looked at Constance. "He's faced all this before and worked through it. d'Artagnan, it will be easier this time – "

He stopped as d'Artagnan turned abruptly, then stopped as if unsure where he was going. All eyes were on him but he just looked lost.

"Constance, what do you know about when he was captured?" asked Athos quietly, hoping this might be a logical place to start.

She shrugged. "Only what you and Porthos told me in letters. That his patrol had been ambushed and he was held prisoner until you found him. You wrote that he recovered well... I know there must be more to it but I thought – you didn't want to talk about your experiences much."

d'Artagnan was looking down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap, but Aramis knew he would be stopping himself from rubbing fiercely at his fingers only by a supreme effort of will. Instead he reached up and caught her hand now, speaking apologetically. "Once we were back here, I just wanted to forget, just... move on. Enjoy being with you. Being back here – safe."

"But you're _not_ enjoying being here!" she burst out, then bit her lip and looked around the room, as if she'd just remembered they weren't alone. She looked back at d'Artagnan, still staring at his fingers entwined with hers, and wanted to snatch her hand away. Why couldn't he just be happy to be home, like he said? Why was he so ... _different_? She knew that was a ridiculous complaint, she knew the war had been grim – she'd heard the reports from Tréville, and stories from other men who'd come back to recover from their injuries at the garrison before being pensioned home. She'd seen the empty spaces where men had not returned, and mourned many of them herself. But he was _home_ , and in one piece apart from some new scars. A lot of new scars, she amended silently. But he was whole, and could finally be her husband properly for the first time, yet he was ... so distant.

The silence stretched in her room. She looked around again. They were all looking at d'Artagnan, waiting for him to speak. She looked at him too, properly, but she could read nothing in his face. "Dammit, that's what you do!" she couldn't stop herself. "You just shut yourself off and I have no idea what you're thinking. And you're getting worse, not better. What's going on? Please, d'Artagnan," and she was begging him now, tears springing to her eyes, "Please, just talk to me."

Still d'Artagnan didn't speak, and Constance could see that he was struggling to remain impassive. A vein was pulsing in his neck and his eyes glistened. His fingers moved constantly, rubbing at his palms and pulling at his finger tips, and his jaw worked. Eventually she couldn't bear to watch his struggle any longer and she broke the silence.

"Start with yesterday, like you said. Why did talk of the siege affect you so?"

d'Artagnan sighed. "That's ... that's the end of it. I can't... it won't make sense."

Suddenly Porthos spoke, gruffly. "Then start when it started."

d'Artagnan looked at him helplessly. Porthos hesitated, searching his face, seeming to see what he needed to see.

"We can 'elp you, lad, with the bits we know." At d'Artagnan's hesitant nod, he continued. "See, I reckon it started about a year in." He looked at Constance. "You know the start was slow, for us at least: not much action." He chuckled momentarily. "Apart from our little adventure when we went over the border, me an 'im, and ended up finding a heap of trouble with the Spanish. He told you 'bout that, right?"

She smiled at Porthos' chuckle and at the way the tension in the room had faded a little. She had indeed heard all about the astonishing night run d'Artagnan had made, and the victory over the Spanish that had led subsequently to her husband's promotion to sub-lieutenant.* Even d'Artagnan had relaxed his shoulders and moved to sit again, picking up a wine cup and toying with it, but his eyes had softened and he looked to Porthos to carry on, something like relief in his face.

"So after that, we got moved. We reckoned General Marche wanted his favourite Musketeer close to hand in case he needed any more Spanish camps clearing out."

They all laughed at that, having heard this story more than once. Then Porthos' expression hardened. "It was a while after that I saw the pup begin to struggle," he continued. d'Artagnan huffed as the old nickname slipped out, but it was a token protest. "We were fighting all the time by then. And that's hard for anyone, being on the alert all the time, ready to go any instant. Your body's exhausted and hurting, you're always carrying small injuries, and your mind – you get tired, Constance, so tired." He looked at Aramis. "You know how it is, my friend." Aramis nodded, unutterably pleased to be included in the memory.

Porthos continued: "So this one, you know what 'e's like, Constance. 'e's giving everything, every day, always at the front of the line, always taking risks and volunteering for everythin'. And Athos 'n me, we're worried for 'im because you can't keep that up for long. And I can see it in 'is eyes; 'e's starting to struggle. Think it was harder on him cos 'e's all heart."

d'Artagnan frowned, started to protest but Porthos held up a hand. "It's just my thoughts, no offense if you disagree but just listen a moment. You're one that 'as to give, all the time. Me, I'm used to going into myself when I 'ave to, and Athos is always that way." Athos smiled wryly and no one disagreed. "But you, lad, you do everything outside of you, holdin' nothin' back. All your emotions, we all know what you're feeling. And most of all you need to be looking after people, helping them. Aramis is the same, only when he's fightin', he can do that after, through being a medic, looking after the injured. But you – you didn't have that there. So all that stuff you're feeling, got nowhere to go. Until those kids came along. That's when it all started, I reckon. That right, lad?"

d'Artagnan nodded, slowly. "I hadn't thought of it like that but ... You're right, what I found hardest wasn't the work or the fighting or the exhaustion. It was the... the... " He struggled to find the words. "...the hatred. There was nothing _kind_ or gentle or noble, nothing I could believe in. Even amongst ourselves, you couldn't... urgh!" He trailed off again, frustrated at not being able to explain.

Athos joined in slowly, as if thinking aloud. "You have to hold yourself apart from your own colleagues because you can't afford to be weak. You can't show love or friendship because when you do, and you lose that man, the loss is all the more unbearable."

Porthos grunted his agreement and Constance found tears coming to her eyes at the thought of these three – no four, Aramis had experienced this too in the past – these four men with the highest principles of honour and brotherhood, full of compassion and love but being unable to show it, having to shut down to keep themselves sane. d'Artagnan's distance suddenly began to make sense. If he'd been doing that for four years ...

"That's it." d'Artagnan cleared his throat and blew out a calming breath, then raised his goblet to Porthos. "You're right, my friend. It did start around then. With the children."

* * *

* See my story "Luck Will Travel"

 _Phew! Glad they've got everything sorted out and_ FINALLY _he's ready to talk! Next couple of chapters will be a change of pace as we go back to the war. Thanks for all the comments - keep 'em coming!_


	4. Chapter 4: Shadow of a Goodbye Part I

_Thanks for your reviews and comments; it is reassuring to know that people are reading and enjoying it so far. Hopefully I've replied to you all individually apart from guests, so to Debbie, your description reminds me of a story I read not long ago - is it posted on FF? Who wrote it? It sounds good!_

 _Okay, here we go! We start to learn more about their war as d'Artagnan begins to talk. I am really excited to post this chapter as it has a couple of my favourite scenes so far, so please let me know what you think. But be warned: it contains some possibly distressing images of the aftermath of battle – oh, and some gory medical stuff. I don't want to give spoilers here so please be cautious if you are likely to find either of these triggers upsetting._

 **Chapter Four: Living Life in the Shadow of a Goodbye Part I**

 _Espelette – late summer 1633_

The road was little more than a dusty track, overgrown with grass and weeds, rimmed with drainage ditches on either side which, at this end of the summer, were filled only with wizened, rustling reeds.

Beside him rode Porthos, sitting tall in the saddle, his presence as sturdy and comforting as always. d'Artagnan had lost count of the number of times in battle that he'd looked to his right or left, hoping for a glimpse of his stalwart friend, then felt his heart gladden and his spirits lift at the sight of Porthos' black curls flying as he swung his blade and roared his defiance.

It wasn't just in the heat of battle that he turned to Porthos. Many times in camp he'd needed the big musketeer's steadying presence, to calm a rush of anger at the stupidity of some of their orders, or settle him after a particularly bad fight.

A bad fight, these days, meant they'd been hammered.

The war was not going well for the French soldiers, as they faced superior numbers and weaponry and extremely well organised forces. They often faced overwhelming odds but were still ordered to raise a full-frontal assault on a well guarded field cannon or an impregnable Spanish fortress. Racing across open ground, feeling the ground shudder under their feet, ears ringing, dust in their eyes, unable to see or hear their officers, d'Artagnan found himself lost, more than once, and had only orientated himself by finding Porthos' dark head in the midst of the carnage.

Being hammered meant they were losing more men than the replacements they periodically received, and the new men were usually inexperienced, often shit-scared, sometimes cocky and over-confident, but all needing patient nurture and supervision, something the exhausted veterans sometimes couldn't raise the energy to achieve.

Having a bad fight, these days, meant stumbling as a cannon ball whistles towards you, pumping your legs desperately in an effort to lunge away from its path in the last second before it smashes into the ground, knocking you to your feet, earth and turf thudding all around you as you blink, fumbling for your lost sword and trying to remember which way is forward when all you want to do is curl into a ball and shut your eyes to the chaos around you.

Having a bad day meant forcing yourself to stand on wobbly legs, gathering a breath and wiping a sweaty hand across your eyes to clear them of the sweat or blood dripping from your forehead, then setting off again to find your unit, following the sound of men hacking at each other with blades, the sound of men groaning and sobbing as the pain of a wound overwhelms them, the sound of men cursing as they die. Because that place, full of the sounds that haunt you every night, _that_ place is where you have to be. Day after day.

Today was a good day. Today they were moving camp, following this dusty track to join with a new regiment of soldiers in the regular army after the unit they'd been with for several weeks had taken heavy losses a few days earlier. They'd had to retreat from that battle line, dragging their wounded and leaving their dead to be collected later after the Spanish had picked over their bodies and stripped them of anything valuable. D'Artagnan had been amongst those detailed to retrieve the dead, and he would never forget the strange silence as they'd ridden back into that valley under a white flag, accompanied by three empty wagons, passing between the new Spanish camps. He couldn't wait to leave those memories behind.

* * *

 _Six days earlier, Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port_

The battlefield had been cleared of Spanish bodies, so as they approached he found it heart-rending to know that every dark shape, every flap of cloth, every lock of hair stirred by the faint breeze, belonged to a Frenchman. Someone with whom he had eaten, argued, shared guard duty, stood with in countless brutal battles.

The smell of death hung thick in the air, sweet and cloying and foul.

They worked in silence, straightening limbs, closing eyelids, turning men onto their backs ready to be lifted into the wagons.

Each time he'd stooped to a new body he had braced himself, knowing that some of the faces would be those of good friends. Several were recognizable only by their boots or some feature of their uniform, their features mangled forever by the cannon's blast.

He'd been hanging on to the last shreds of his composure all day. His head ached from the blow to his head he'd taken early in the battle, compounded by the energy-sapping heat, the roar of the battle, and the complete exhaustion that comes with hours of living what you believe could be the last second of your life. But he'd been okay, distancing himself mentally from what he was seeing and smelling and doing with his hands. Until he'd turned one body over and seen the face of Jambert, a regular army man with whom d'Artagnan had hit it off the very first time they'd been paired on guard duty.

Jambert was Parisian, well-educated, a ladies' man, and proud of his looks. He kept his uniform scrupulously clean and polished his boots and his beloved silver belt buckle religiously after every battle. They'd known each other for all of three months but here in this world gone mad, this inferno, seconds could last for hours and three months was a lifetime.

d'Artagnan knew the initial warmth he felt towards Jambert was directly attributable to the way the man reminded him, superficially at least, of Aramis; but their growing friendship owed everything to Jambert's own character and the way he always managed to cheer d'Artagnan up even on the bleakest of days.

And now he was dead, his strong jaw smashed by a direct hit, bone showing through the mangled flesh. Dead eyes staring up at d'Artagnan for the last time.

Even then d'Artagnan held it together. He had known that Jambert must be out here, amongst the dead, as soon as they'd stumbled wearily back to their own camp after the order to retreat and he'd realised the Parisian was not amongst the wounded they carried with them.

He closed his own eyes for a second, then reached down with gentle fingers that trembled only slightly, to close Jambert's eyelids. He brushed his hand softly down the man's cheek, feeling regret that he hadn't had time to get to know him properly; couldn't remember if he had two sisters or three; didn't know which was his favourite inn in Paris.

Then he pushed himself resolutely up, knowing he couldn't even now give him the time he deserved: that more friends awaited his attention. And as he'd straightened, starting to look around for someone to help him carry Jambert to the death wagon, he had noticed Jambert's belt, ending in a ragged cut where the silver buckle should be.

The **bastards** had ripped the buckle off!

For a second he just stared in blank incomprehension, then felt a surge of such strong emotion that he actually staggered. Rage and grief battled for supremacy and he literally could not breathe for a moment. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and even the deathly hush of the battlefield faded, leaving only the roaring in his ears as he tried to get his frozen solar plexus to work. Finally the message got through and his head lifted as he heaved in a raw, sobbing breath then released it explosively.

His surroundings returned slowly. He was sitting on the ground now, several feet from Jambert, arms wrapped around his body, rocking slightly. He knew he was doing it, but somehow couldn't stop himself. He also couldn't take his eyes off Jambert, even though there were others around him talking, and hands touching him.

He knew he needed to move. To reassure; to resume his role as d'Artagnan, the Gascon, the light-hearted, stubborn, impulsive fighter who always survived. That was the character he played here, in the war zone.

They all had roles, and relied on them. There was a joker, a prankster, a carer, a leader. There was always a man who quietly rallied everyone and a man who could fight ten men at once and still laugh. There was a marksman, an ingrate, a tale-spinner. They needed each of these men and when one man died someone else would somehow, sooner or later, step into a new role to fill the gap. They all forgot how many times the face of the comedian or the story-teller had changed, and it didn't matter so long as they could turn around on the battlefield or around the campfire and still find a man to play that role when they needed it.

So d'Artagnan knew he needed to pull the tattered shreds of himself together and resume his part, but somehow he couldn't remember his lines. He couldn't make his lips move, still less smile. Jambert was dead and the bastards had stolen his buckle. All he could feel was grief. And rage. They'd ripped the thing that most said "Jambert" from him.

Grief won out. Maybe he was just too damned tired to feel angry any more, or maybe he knew, deep down, that there was no point. He blinked, becoming aware that his eyes were full of sweat. He raised a hand filthy with other men's blood and swiped angrily at his eyes. Maybe he could still feel anger. Was he crying? Jesus, what was happening to him? He had to stop rocking, and his eyes were wet again. He couldn't see... couldn't hear anything above a low keening noise that was getting on his nerves. Who the hell was it? He had to get out of here, couldn't do this anymore. Just needed some peace, somewhere away from all of ... this. He waved a hand vaguely at the carnage in front of him, unable to express, even to himself, exactly what "this" was.

He tried to stand up and found he couldn't seem to move. He lifted his head, wondering what was happening. Had he been shot? Was he still in the battle? No, they'd retreated, then come back to collect their dead, hadn't they? So why...

"Steady." A quiet voice in his ear accompanied by a rumble he felt through his back. Porthos.

A wave of relief flooded his body. Porthos was with him. He would know what was happening; he would sort everything out.

He sagged back down again, realising that it was Porthos behind him, and Porthos' hands on his shoulders that were stopping him from rising.

He cleared his throat. The hands moved from his shoulders and he felt a momentary pang of loss, then Porthos was kneeling in front of him, looking at him with that gentle expression, the one that says "I know, you don't have to explain," and then he smiled, the smile that says "You're going to be alright," and suddenly d'Artagnan did feel alright again.

"I lost it," he admitted. His voice sounded strange to his ears, like it didn't quite belong to him, but the words were right, and Porthos smiled again and nodded.

"I know," he said.

"They took his belt buckle."

"I know."

"It ... it got to me a bit."

A longer pause, then another soft "I know," and then d'Artagnan found himself being pulled in for a hug, and then he didn't think anything or say anything for quite a long time. He just leaned his aching head against Porthos' leathers, and breathed.

Porthos didn't let him go until his breathing steadied and his heart stopped hammering. He seemed to know when d'Artagnan had control of himself again, and patted him on the shoulder before rising to his feet and holding out a hand to the Gascon. Accepting gratefully, d'Artagnan looked around and realised all the bodies had gone except for Jambert. Porthos's glance said clearly ' _is it okay for me to help?'_ and d'Artagnan nodded resolutely. Together they stooped and gathered the broken body up, carried him to the wagon and laid him carefully alongside the other fallen soldiers from today's battle.

Walking behind the wagon, d'Artagnan was grateful for the distance to the French camp. He had seen no censure on any French faces as they moved off. He wasn't sure if anyone had seen his meltdown other than Porthos. Surely they must have done, but no one was saying anything. It was hardly the first time someone had been overwhelmed when faced with the death of a comrade, after all. But it was the first time d'Artagnan had broken down, however briefly, and it had shaken him to the core. He was a Gascon, and Gascons didn't do defeat, or despair. Gascons shouted defiance and took on the world, chins up and eyes blazing.

He tried to remember how he should feel, how to hold himself. It felt like he was trying to be someone else.

Someone tripped in front of him, and someone else laughed as they picked the fallen man up, teasing about big feet. "You know what they say about big feet," the first man rejoined, and the tension was broken. d'Artagnan stretched his lips into a smile and wondered how he'd ever managed to laugh about anything, here on the battle front.

By the time they'd reached camp d'Artagnan thought he'd got it – got the old d'Artagnan back, the one who could always find a bright side to everything, and cheer up his fellow guardsmen even in a downpour or on the third day of bread-only rations. Porthos was back in front of their party, no longer keeping pace beside him, and he was walking amongst three of his newer friends, all speculating idly about the culinary delights that might be served to them tonight.

They found Athos waiting on horseback at the entrance, flanked by rows of silent men, soldiers and Musketeers side by side. At Athos' quiet command, the men filed forward and bowed their heads as the wagons slowed to a halt, then began the slow process of unloading the bodies. They had already dug a large grave and prepared the wooden crosses.

Those who had gathered them up from the battlefield stood back and let the rest of the camp take over. Porthos quietly told his men to wash, change and eat. d'Artagnan headed first for the horse lines, having not had time earlier to check Nuit, and that's where Athos found him after he'd conducted the burial service.

Athos stood watching him for a moment, as the young Musketeer finished washing the sweat from his mare's flanks and dried her with a twist of long grass. Suddenly sensing the watchful eyes, d'Artagnan turned and raised a smile for his Captain.

"Did you want me?"

Athos contemplated. He'd seen immediately, as the retrieval party returned to camp, that d'Artagnan was not right: his eyes were glittering, his smile too tight. A nod from Porthos had confirmed his observation and he'd resolved to find the Gascon at the earliest opportunity. But now, watching him work with the horses, he seemed more relaxed, more normal, and Athos was loath to drag him out of it and back to whatever had spooked him earlier.

"Just checking you're okay. It was a tough day."

d'Artagnan tensed and his eyes searched his Captain's face, as if checking for hidden meanings, but Athos kept his expression bland, so d'Artagnan relaxed again.

"It was pretty grim. How are the wounded?"

They began to walk towards the centre of camp together and Athos answered mechanically but his mind was nagging at him: something was definitely wrong with the young Musketeer. Finally he had it.

"You're limping."

It was a statement, not an accusation but definitely not a question, so d'Artagnan found himself nodding in agreement before he could stop himself.

Athos grinned at the expression that flashed across the Gascon's face after that telling nod. Fury, embarrassment, doubt – _could he bluff? No, too late for that_ , all in a split second.

"Were you hurt today? Porthos said not." This was more accusatory; there were few things that annoyed Athos more than men denying injuries which needed treatment.

"No, not today," the Gascon hastened to assure him. There was an expectant pause on Athos' part. d'Artagnan huffed and gave in. "My hip's been sore for a bit, but it seems to have got worse recently. I thought it was just a muscle strain."

Another silence. d'Artagnan felt irritation rising. He was telling the truth, he had thought it a strain and if everyone mentioned every bruise or stiff muscle, none of them would make it out of the medical tent for _any_ battle. He turned to say this to Athos, but found his Captain regarding him with a soft smile, and his angry protestation died on his lips.

"Go and see Etienne."

"Athos, it's nothing, I really don't..."

"If it were nothing, you would not be limping. Go and see him – now."

There was no mistaking the command in the soft voice and d'Artagnan sighed again, but changed course for the medical tent.

"I'll make sure they save supper for you," Athos called after him. d'Artagnan paused in the doorway of the medical tent, and waved his thanks although he had no appetite at all, tonight. Taking a breath he pushed the tent flap aside, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Inside he found an air of calm had descended over the tent, its occupants mostly sleeping. It was in sharp contrast to the last time he'd been in here, several hours earlier, as he helped another wounded comrade in to be assessed and patched up by Etienne and his team. Then all ten beds had been occupied, with several men sitting on chairs and some on the ground, waiting to be seen. Now only seven beds were taken. d'Artagnan hoped the others had been discharged as walking wounded, to recuperate in their own tents, and not carried to the burial ground with the bodies he'd helped to retrieve.

Etienne was checking the bandage on a sleeping soldier but looked up as soon as d'Artagnan stepped inside.

"What's up?" he barked immediately. Etienne was a Breton and a man of few words.

"Athos sent me. My hip's been hurting and he thought you should take a look."

Etienne frowned, but d'Artagnan couldn't tell whether it was at the thought of another injury or the way d'Artagnan had crafted his sentence to make it clear that it was Athos who was fussing, not him. Etienne resettled the bandage and waved at an empty cot. "Strip," he instructed tersely, moving to wash his hands before coming over to stand in front of d'Artagnan, waiting impatiently for him to remove his leathers and braes.

D'Artagnan complied meekly. There was no privacy in camp and none of them thought twice about stripping off in front of their fellow soldiers. With his lower body stripped bare Etienne made him stand, then walk several paces to and fro. D'Artagnan automatically tried to compensate for his limp until Etienne glared at him, well aware of what he was doing, and waved him back to the cot. He started prodding d'Artagnan's flank, digging strong fingers in towards the hip bone, manipulating the flesh back and forth until d'Artagnan felt he would prefer the pain from his hip to this onslaught. But suddenly Etienne's probing fingers found the correct spot and d'Artagnan hissed in pain, instinctively flinching away from the brutal examination before he could stop himself.

"Hmm" was all Etienne said. He straightened up, his eyes raking over every inch of d'Artagnan's body, or so it seemed.

"It's just a pulled muscle. I tried to tell Athos but you know what he's – "

"No, it's not." Etienne's voice brooked no argument and d'Artagnan's protest died on his lips.

"What is it then?" For the first time d'Artagnan wondered if it was something more serious. But he'd have known, wouldn't he? He hadn't had any injuries there, not since Etienne had dug a musket ball out near that hip, the night he and Athos had rescued Porthos from deep in the Spanish mountains.* But that had been weeks ago – months, even.

It seemed Etienne's thoughts were travelling the same path and he bent again to peer at the small scar on d'Artagnan's flank, just below the hip. "Remind me, when did this happen?"

d'Artagnan worked it out as best he could, reckoning it was eight or nine weeks.

"Have you had any fevers since then?"

d'Artagnan shook his head.

"Confusion? Sweating? Racing heart?"

Etienne's intensity was beginning to rattle d'Artagnan.

"No... Etienne, what is it?"

Instead of answering, Etienne straightened with a grunt and strode to the entrance, whistling to a passing man and instructing him to find Athos immediately.

d'Artagnan's heart _was_ beginning to race now, but he put it down to intense irritation at the way Etienne was ignoring him. He was damned if he was going to sit here waiting for Athos to arrive! He stood up, ignoring the flash of pain that shot up from his hip at the sudden movement, and grabbed his braes to start dressing.

"Don't bother," came the dry comment from Etienne.

d'Artagnan paused, wobbling awkwardly on one leg, foot already halfway in, and glared. "Why not? Am I not allowed to leave, now? Because unless you can bring yourself to explain what's going on, I am..."

He stopped as Athos appeared in the entrance behind Etienne, his calm eyes scanning the tent interior quickly, pausing on d'Artagnan briefly (who flushed, feeling stupid as he hopped to keep his balance, his fury quickly subsiding), then resting inquiringly on Etienne who had turned as soon as he sensed Athos behind him.

"What is it?" he asked, economically.

Etienne walked towards d'Artagnan without answering (which d'Artagnan noticed, with a small rush of satisfaction that he was not the only person being ignored around here). Athos followed and they both came to a halt in front of d'Artagnan, who gave up on the idea of getting dressed and sank back to perch on the side of the cot.

"He has a deep infection in the site of the musket wound from a couple of months ago."

For a moment d'Artagnan felt relieved. Infection didn't sound too bad; they'd all experienced it after a wound at some time or other, and unless you were seriously wounded or run-down, most men recovered after a few days of high fever. He frowned then, realising that he hadn't been feverish. Etienne's questions began to make sense – but not his answers. If he had no symptoms of infection, how did Etienne even know that was the problem?

He looked up and caught a fleeting expression on Athos' face that he thought looked like – fear? It vanished as soon as Athos saw d'Artagnan look up, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded calm.

"Are you sure?"

"No!" Etienne answered irritably. "I can't be sure... but I can't think how else to explain it."

"Have you come across this before?"

"Yes." Etienne sounded reluctant.

"Can you treat it?"

Not 'what's the treatment', d'Artagnan realised, with a lurch of alarm. He couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Etienne, what – "

"I think when I dug the musket ball out, I didn't clean it properly." Athos stirred as if to protest but Etienne carried on, face grim. "Or there was a thread from your clothes left in the wound. Doesn't really matter what. You've been feeling pain for how long?"

"Um..." d'Artagnan's throat was suddenly dry. "Not long. It ached for a while afterwards it happened, but I expected that." Etienne nodded, impatiently. "I noticed it felt worse a week or so ago, that's all." Another nod. "Why is that so bad?"

"Because it's deep. If left untreated your body can't cope with the poison from the infection. If it gets into the bone, or into the rest of your body through your blood, you will most likely die quite quickly."

Die? d'Artagnan blinked, unable to take it in. He was feeling fine, how could he be at risk of dying? He looked from Etienne to Athos, blankly. "So what can we do? There is something you can do, isn't there?" He hoped that didn't sound as desperate as it did to his own ears.

Athos looked at Etienne. Etienne pursed his lips, then sighed. "Yes. Probably."

Athos cocked an eyebrow and held up a hand to d'Artagnan who looked ready to erupt.

"Etienne." Athos' voice was gentle but his tone unmistakeably urgent. "Explain before the lad explodes."

Etienne looked at d'Artagnan's expression and his own softened, just for a second.

"I've heard of it being done, but haven't done the procedure myself. I know what to do but it's – it's dangerous." He paused, but carried on when d'Artagnan made a muffled sound of exasperation. "It won't get better on its own, not without being drained of the infection. I have to open up the wound, find the source and clean it out properly. The procedure itself can cause the infection to spread."

Damned if I do, damned if I don't, thought d'Artagnan. They were both looking at him expectantly. He sighed, and stood up, reaching for his braes again. "I'll think about it. Thanks Etienne – "

Athos' hand covered his and took the braes away. d'Artagnan looked at him questioningly. "You don't have a choice, d'Artagnan. If it needs doing, do it now." His eyes never left d'Artagnan's but Etienne took it as permission and moved off instantly, calling through the tent flap for someone to find Julien straight away, someone else to heat water.

"Athos, this is ridiculous. I feel fine, I don't want..."

"Don't force me to make it an order, d'Artagnan." Athos' eyes were sympathetic but his tone was firm and d'Artagnan sank back down.

"You think... I really have to...?"

There was a pause as the two looked at each other, oblivious to the sounds of men entering the tent and quiet instructions from Etienne. Eventually Athos said quietly: "I'll fetch Porthos," and he spun on his heel and strode out.

Ten minutes later everything was ready, and d'Artagnan found himself lying on his back, arguing about taking a draught of laudanum and wishing he'd just walked a bit straighter, an hour earlier. He'd been fine! It was a fuss over nothing...

"He'll drink the damned pain draught!" Porthos snapped, taking it from Julien and shoving it into d'Artagnan's hands.

"It makes me sick!" protested d'Artagnan. "Etienne, it's wasted on me, you know it is."

Etienne paused from the act of washing his hands. It was true that the last time he'd given it to d'Artagnan, the lad had thrown everything back up two minutes later. "What do you usually have for pain, then?" he asked.

d'Artagnan shrugged and it was Porthos who answered. "Aramis used to make something up from herbs – I think it varied depending on what he had to hand."

Etienne sighed, and looked at Julien. "I'll get something ready," the young medic said, moving off promptly to rummage in his stocks of herbs.

"I'll be fine, Etienne, just do what you have to do."

A wry smile teased the man's lips. "This won't be pleasant, d'Artagnan. It's not like having a wound cleaned and stitched. You're already in pain then, and don't care what happens so long as someone makes it better. This is different. I'm going to be cutting into flesh that has healed." He paused, searching d'Artagnan's face.

"It'll be fine." d'Artagnan spoke with an assurance he didn't feel. Etienne was still scrutinising him, so he added, flippantly: "I promise not to wake any of your other patients".

Etienne pursed his lips then nodded. "Julien, over here with the bowl. Porthos?"

Porthos moved into position behind d'Artagnan's head, placing his hands on his shoulders. "Just keep your eyes on me," he advised, cheerfully.

d'Artagnan meant to, he really did; but when another aide, Lucien, took a firm hold on his legs he couldn't help but glance down, and so he was watching with a kind of horrified fascination when Etienne put the blade to his flesh and drew it firmly across, leaving a line of scarlet blood welling up in its wake. He was just noticing how the flesh was bursting open a bit like a ripe peach when you cut into it, when the pain kicked in and he gasped and jerked, unable to help himself.

He felt Porthos' hands tighten on his shoulders and his breath warm on his cheek as the burly Musketeer leaned close and whispered to him to "be still, d'Artagnan, be still now."

Jesus! He didn't normally blaspheme, even in his own mind, but he couldn't help it. Looking down again he saw Julien mopping up the blood as Etienne's knife went back across the first cut, slicing through his flesh again to create a cross, then he picked up a pair of blunt tweezers and started to pull open his skin, deftly cutting deeper as he opened up the cross.

Etienne had been right, d'Artagnan realised as he swallowed desperately against the bile flooding his mouth. It wasn't the same as surgery on an existing wound. This pain was sudden and intense, and indescribable. It felt as if Etienne was digging with a bloody shovel not a knife. The rest of him was fit enough to want to struggle, to escape, to shout for it to stop, and he couldn't believe he'd agreed to this, he couldn't catch his breath, he couldn't do it, he couldn't bear it ... He gritted his teeth, wrapped his fingers around the sides of the bed in a vice-like grip, and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Breathe," instructed Porthos in a soft whisper.

There was a roaring in his ears and black spots dancing around his vision as d'Artagnan opened his eyes and tried to comply. Porthos' deep brown eyes were hovering anxiously upside down above his head. d'Artagnan could see sweat on his brow and a look of barely suppressed panic in his eyes. He unclenched his jaw enough to whisper "You okay?", then snapped his mouth shut again as Etienne dug deeper and fresh bile rose in his throat.

Porthos laughed, weakly. "Course I'm alright, you stubborn idiot! Now stop wriggling and focus on me. It'll soon be over."

It wasn't. It took Etienne ten minutes of probing, enlarging the wound steadily and constant cursing, before he finally exclaimed and leapt backwards as a gush of pungent yellow pus erupted from d'Artagnan's flesh.

Julien was quick to hold up the bowl in which he'd been collecting blood and swabs, and under Etienne's instruction began to clean the wound carefully, using fresh cloth for each sweep. Once, when he forgot and went to mop up a fresh welling of pus with the cloth he'd already used, Etienne snapped at him and he jumped, quickly dropping the bloodied cloth into the bowl with a muttered apology.

"What's going on?" d'Artagnan managed to whisper to Porthos.

"Cleaning the wound. Apparently it's really important not to spread the pus so it's ... tricky." Porthos winced as he chose his words carefully. Etienne had a fierce glare when he felt under pressure, and this was certainly one of those times.

Eventually the wound was cleaned to his satisfaction. d'Artagnan's whole hip and upper leg felt as if it were on fire and even though the digging around had stopped, fresh stabs of pain shot up periodically as his nerve-endings responded to the injury. Risking opening his eyes, d'Artagnan expected to see Etienne or Julien preparing to stitch the wound closed, but instead found himself watching as Etienne approached him with clean hands, holding a short glass tube. "What is that for?" Even to his own ears, his voice sounded fearful.

Etienne looked surprised to be addressed by his patient and d'Artagnan wondered if he'd forgotten he was still conscious. He would be far more used to cutting men who were unconscious from pain or laudanum, he realised.

Etienne looked down at the tube then back to d'Artagnan. "The infection was very deep – close to the bone. I don't want to stitch the wound closed until I'm sure it's all clear. This will help the pus to drain." Without further ado he inserted the tube into the wound, making d'Artagnan's back arch in response to the new onslaught of pain.

"A little warning would've been nice," Porthos told him fiercely, struggling to keep d'Artagnan still.

Etienne flicked him a glance but didn't bother replying. Holding the tube in place, with the last inch or so still protruding from the wound, he jerked his chin at Julien who hastened forward with needle and thread ready to stitch the tube in place.

"You're leaving that in there?" Porthos asked, aghast.

"It's temporary. When it drains clear, we'll remove it and close the wound."

"How long will that take?"

d'Artagnan was glad Porthos was asking these questions; he feared if he opened his mouth to speak only a whimper of pain would come out.

"Depends."

"On what?" Porthos was definitely sounding testy now.

"On whether I've got to the deepest pocket of infection, whether we can keep it clean, whether he heals fast, how run down he is ..." Etienne disappeared out of d'Artagnan's view then reappeared carrying a small bowl with mashed up herbs in it, which he proceeded to pack around the tube and over the wound. He laid a pad of fine gauze over the herb paste and covered it with a bandage, wrapping deftly either side of the tube to hold it in place without covering it. Then, for the first time since he'd started, he looked directly at d'Artagnan. "How are you doing?"

d'Artagnan managed a creditable "I'm fine," drawing a predictable "hmph" from Porthos and a "Get some rest" from Etienne as he moved off.

"Wait! How long do I have to stay here?"

Porthos chuckled. "Like he said, till the infection's cleared. Just a day or two." He patted d'Artagnan on the shoulder and headed out of the tent.

d'Artagnan suddenly felt very alone. Everything had happened so quickly – one minute he was grooming Nuit, the next he was stuck here, in awful pain and surrounded by injured and possibly dying soldiers. Where had Porthos gone? Didn't he realise how terrible d'Artagnan was feeling? He tried to sit up, and gulped, instantly feeling both dizzy and sick at the same time.

"Lie down!" snapped Etienne from somewhere behind him. Muttering, he came over to push d'Artagnan back down on the cot.

"I feel sick," protested d'Artagnan, choosing not to explain that he felt sick _because_ of sitting up rather than the other way around.

Before Etienne could respond, the tent flap opened and Athos strode in. He looked tired but smiled when he saw d'Artagnan, a smile that turned quickly to a frown. Looking around, he scooped up a bowl and brought it swiftly to d'Artagnan's side, threading an arm under his shoulders and helping him to sit up enough to throw up into the bowl.

When he could bring nothing else up, d'Artagnan sank obediently back down into the pillow. "How did you know I needed...?" he whispered, feeling ridiculously weak.

Athos chuckled. "I know that look," he answered, hooking a chair with his foot and dragging it close enough to sit by d'Artagnan's cot.

"Didn't you have a meeting?" d'Artagnan was struggling to stay awake all of a sudden.

"Yes, a short one. Now I'm here, and you can rest. Sleep!" Athos instructed firmly. And d'Artagnan slept.

* * *

Etienne removed the tube after 24 hours, delighted (as far as anyone could guess – there was no actual smile, but he didn't look quite as grumpy as normal) that the wound was draining clear. The following morning, sick of d'Artagnan begging to be allowed to leave the tent, Etienne had him carried to his own tent on a stretcher, much to d'Artagnan's disgust.

That was when he discovered half the regiment had already packed up and left the camp, heading for Espelette to join with the General's forces on a new battle front. d'Artagnan was annoyed that no-one had told him, cross with Athos for waiting for him, and embarrassed that _he_ was the reason the Musketeers were now split up.

It was another four days – fraught with ill-temper on d'Artagnan's part as he argued his fitness with Athos, and tried to hide his pain and stiffness from both him and Porthos – before Athos gave the order to the rest of them to break camp and head out to rejoin their brothers.

* * *

* See part one of this Battlescars story arc, Luck Will Travel

A/N I hope you like this first foray back into the war. More to come next chapter! I'm aiming to post on Tuesdays and Fridays, just in case anyone is wondering.


	5. Chapter 5: Shadow of a Goodbye Part II

_I love this chapter and I'm really excited to see what you make of it. I hope the length doesn't put you off – it's mostly a feel-good chapter so it shouldn't be too painful to read. I think it's plausible – it could have happened – but let me know what you think!_

 _At Debbie: BootsnHats! I've read it – War Heroes, it's absolutely bloomin' awesome writing! It's in my favourites, one of the best war-stories out there so if any of you haven't found it, check it out!_

 **Chapter Five: Living Life in the Shadow of a Goodbye Part II**

 _Espelette, late summer 1633_

That's how he came to be riding along this dusty track, Porthos by his side, musing on how much he relied on the big man and how generally crap the last few weeks had been. His hip was healing well but he knew Etienne was unhappy about him riding so soon after the operation, and Athos was keeping such a close eye on him that he felt claustrophobic.

They were riding at a slow walk, for his benefit, but should still make the new camp in daylight. This area of the border country was full of low hills and dusty plains, with more farms than villages scattered along the river valleys. The war had closed in on the local population several times, and sure enough on this golden evening they noticed a file of around 40 people ahead of them, their progress marked by the dust cloud stirred up as they walked.

As the musketeers drew near, d'Artagnan could see some elders pulling wooden handcarts carrying bundles of clothes, a couple of wooden chests, crates of chickens and a few small sacks of corn. Youngsters walked alongside herding a couple of goats, some carrying smaller children on their shoulders.

Athos rode ahead to talk with the refugees at the front of the line. d'Artagnan and Porthos were near the back so didn't see exactly what happened, but a horse suddenly skittered sideways, there was a shrill cry of alarm, and a couple of the children disappeared in the cloud of dust under the hooves.

Most of the men had already passed and d'Artagnan saw the rider of the skittish horse look around behind him, then shrug and trot to catch up, leaving Porthos and d'Artagnan alone at the tail of the straggle of refugees.

"Where did those kids go?" Porthos' voice was urgent as he nudged Flip forwards. None of the refugees seemed to have taken any notice of the momentary commotion, all still plodding forwards. d'Artagnan was scanning the ditch to the left where he had seen a flurry of motion, and was rewarded with a flash of pale face and huge eyes looking up at him as he neared the spot.

"There!" he pointed, and was sliding off Nuit before Porthos could stop him.

"d'Artagnan! Etienne will kill me if ... Oh, damnit!" Porthos gave up and joined him on the ground. "Stay here," he instructed fiercely, thrusting Flip's reins into his hand before he could protest, and scrambling down into the ditch where d'Artagnan had seen the young face.

There was a small gasp of fear, then Porthos' reassuring rumble, and then a hand reaching up out of the waist-high nettles and reeds. d'Artagnan caught it with his free hand, and pulled gently as a grubby young boy emerged, looking over his shoulder.

"My sister!" he gulped, struggling to climb out of the ditch and turn to help her at the same time.

"Porthos will bring her out, don't worry. Are you hurt?" d'Artagnan set the lad on his feet and checked him over quickly as he spoke. The boy looked to be around 8 or 9 years old, with a shock of thick brown hair caked with dust. His face was streaked with fresh mud from the bottom of the ditch and what looked like tear tracks cut through the dirt on his cheeks. But the look he gave d'Artagnan was sharp enough and his voice was steady as he answered.

"My sister cut her leg. That horse kicked her!" he added, indignantly.

More likely they'd strayed too close under the horse's legs, thought d'Artagnan grimly, as Porthos emerged from the ditch holding a sobbing young girl.

"Madeline!" The boy sounded worried as he started to scramble down towards her, stopped only by d'Artagnan who swiftly hooked a hand into the lad's belt to stop him disappearing into the ditch again.

"Porthos has her safe," he said again, yanking the lad back to level ground again. "What's your name?" he added quickly, to divert him.

"Marcus," the boy answered, looking at d'Artagnan properly for the first time. Then: "Are you a soldier?"

"Yes. We are King's Musketeers."

"Are you going to the battlefront?"

"Um... Yes, I suppose so."

"Have you killed anyone?"

d'Artagnan was shocked by the boy's bluntness, but both were fortunately distracted by Porthos arriving back on the track at last, looking – and smelling – filthy.

"Here, take her," he said tersely, handing the young girl to d'Artagnan so he could brush some of the filthy mud from his legs then rubbed his muddy hands on his legs making them instantly dirty again.

d'Artagnan was left holding a girl who looked to be no more than five or six years old and was still sobbing silently. He could feel her whole body trembling, and his heart went out to her. "Hello, Madeline," he said softly. She looked up at him with bright blue eyes, tears still streaming down her face but her mouth open in an "o" of surprise at this stranger who knew her name.

"Did you hurt your leg?" d'Artagnan asked slightly inanely – he could see the blood running down from a gash on her shin. "Right, let's see if we have something that might help."

He hitched Madeline more securely onto his hip and hunted through his pockets for his handkerchief, relieved to find it was clean, and struggled to tie it with one hand.

From a distance ahead there was a sudden shout. Both men looked up to find the Musketeers had stopped a hundred or so paces away, and Athos was riding back towards them looking thunderous. There was also, d'Artagnan noticed uneasily, now no sign of the rest of the refugees.

"d'Artagnan, mount up before he gets here and blasts us both to the heavens. I'm supposed to be lookin' after you!" Porthos muttered, grabbing Flip's reins and trying to pluck the girl from d'Artagnan's grasp. She instantly clung tighter to d'Artagnan, wrapping her legs around his waist with a surprisingly strong grip.

"Um..." d'Artagnan dithered. Too late. Athos had arrived.

"What the hell are you two playing at?" he hissed in his icy, "yelling" voice.

"The kids got knocked off the path into the ditch," Porthos answered, finally managing to wrest the girl from d'Artagnan and plonking her gently onto the path. Marcus instantly grabbed her hand and held it tight.

"Sorry Athos, she was cut on the leg by Dumard's horse," added d'Artagnan, lining up to remount and finding Porthos behind him to give him a welcome leg up. His hip was hurting more than he cared to admit.

"Well if you've quite finished playing nursemaid..."

"Sir? Can we come with you please?"

"Certainly not!" Athos didn't even look down as he turned Roger ready to catch the others up.

"But we're lost!" Marcus' voice wobbled.

"Athos, the refugees –"

"– are just up ahead. If you hurry you'll catch them before the turn off to Cambo-les-Bains," Athos interrupted. "Now come on or we'll never get there before dark." And without waiting any longer, he nudged Roger into a canter.

d'Artagnan looked at Porthos who cursed, knowing that look only too well.

"Just until we catch up then!" he muttered, checking that Athos wasn't looking back before reaching down to pick the young girl up and plonk her on the saddle in front of him as if she weighed no more than a chicken.

Marcus grabbed hold of d'Artagnan's stirrup leather eagerly and managed to get one foot in the stirrup, though it was almost at his shoulder height. d'Artagnan grinned and caught him by the collar, hauling him into the saddle behind him.

By the time they'd caught up to the other Musketeers Athos was waiting again, looking even more furious than before, and d'Artagnan had garnered the children's life story from Marcus in no more than a few minutes.

"Is he your boss?" asked the young lad as they approached Athos. "He looks very cross."

d'Artagnan laughed as he drew Nuit to a halt beside Athos in time for him to hear the comment. "It's our fault she was injured and they wouldn't catch up easily with the girl lame," he said quietly to Athos by way of explanation as he handed Marcus back down to the ground. Porthos deposited Madeline gently to the ground as well. She looked half asleep.

"Never been on horseback before," grunted Porthos.

"Athos, can – "

"No!"

"But I haven't even – "

"d'Artagnan if you say one more word I will strip you of your commission. Do I make myself clear?"

d'Artagnan sighed, and nodded, carefully not catching Porthos' eye.

With a final glare, Athos wheeled Roger and headed back to the front of his men, waving them to move off.

"I'm sorry Marcus, you can't come with us; but the villagers you were with will look after you. Now make haste to catch them up, and look after your sister."

Sighing, d'Artagnan watched as Marcus took Madeline by the hand and the pair set off up the track, disconsolately.

"Come on before he explodes," Porthos advised him. d'Artagnan was silent as they caught up and turned off to the south, heading for their new camp.

"Look, we're living in an army camp and will be fighting again in a day or two. We can't turn ourselves into a refugee camp just because they've got big brown eyes!" Porthos chided him, gently.

"Blue. She had blue eyes," corrected d'Artagnan absently.

"And besides, they should be with their families. I'm sure once they realised they were missing they would have come back..."

"Their parents are both dead." d'Artagnan's tone was flat.

"What?"

"Their father was a soldier; he died a few months ago. Their village was overrun by Spanish soldiers a month or so ago. They hid but they were spotted and had to run for it. They got to some woods and their mother put them up in a tree and told them to wait until she came for them, then she ran. Marcus heard the soldiers catch her a few paces away. He didn't see it but it sounds like they dragged her off and ... well, you can imagine."

"d'Artagnan..." Porthos felt helpless. What an awful story. "We don't know that anything happened to her."

d'Artagnan snorted. "They found her body. Marcus didn't let Madeline see her but when they climbed down... a whole _day_ later, Porthos – they waited a day! And they found her body in a hut in the village. Marcus said there was lots of blood on her dress but he couldn't see a wound." His voice trailed off then he said vehemently: "He's ten, Porthos, just ten! Madeline is seven. They have _no_ one in the world, because of this bloody war, and the other refugees didn't even _notice_ they'd disappeared into that ditch."

The silence lasted so long that they reached the camp before Porthos responded. Finally, as they halted near the horse lines and dismounted, Porthos caught d'Artagnan by the arm. "I'm sorry, lad. I know how you feel. But we can't help everyone. We're doing our bit by fighting: let others help the refugees."

d'Artagnan snorted again. "Who, Porthos? Who's helping them?" Then he spun on his heel, ignoring the pain flaring from his hip, and stalked off.

Porthos stared after him, his eyes dark and pained. He wanted to do the same – to shout and rage, to rush to protect the refugee children like he'd looked out for the youngsters in the Court. But he was a Lieutenant now, and this was his calling. He'd chosen this life, and the Musketeers were his family. He might not always agree with the decisions made by the family elders but if he didn't respect them, where would he be? d'Artagnan was young, still, and hurting. It was up to Porthos to steady him, to keep him grounded.

He sighed, turned – and ran straight into a glare from Athos that would fell a lesser man.

"Something on your mind?"

Porthos was glad that, at least, Athos wasn't starting with an accusation. Or a reprimand. "My apologies, Captain." He saw Athos' eyebrow flick at the formal response, then saw his expression soften slightly as he recognised Porthos' explicit respect as a kind of apology for the way the pair had behaved on the trek to their new base.

"Alright – we'll talk later. We have a lot of work to do if we're to get set up before nightfall."

They both started to walk towards the centre of camp, which was heaving with activity. Several other regiments had arrived during the day and men were bustling in every direction, adding more tents to the rows already erected, moving stores and equipment, some greeting old friends from previous campaigns together.

Porthos spotted d'Artagnan helping Fouchard and Dumard put up a tent and went to go over, concerned that he should be resting, but Athos held him back.

"d'Artagnan!"

d'Artagnan looked up then deposited his armful of canvas in Fouchard's arms and walked over. "Sir?"

"Grab a shovel and dig a second latrine behind the first – it's not nearly big enough for our number."

To give him credit, d'Artagnan didn't blink, simply nodded and headed off without a hint of reproach or rebellion in his expression.

Athos looked at Porthos, who obliged. "You really think digging a trench is the best thing for him right now –"

"Yes, or I would not have given him the job," interrupted Athos.

"– with his hip still healing?" finished Porthos loudly.

Athos' cool gaze met Porthos' with calm detachment but his words betrayed his tetchiness. "It didn't stop him scrambling around in ditches when we were on a march!"

"Well, maybe I should be digging with him since I was the one in the ditch, helping an injured 7-year-old girl and her frightened brother!"

"We are soldiers with a job to do. We don't have time for distractions!" hissed Athos.

Porthos took a step closer. "We are _Musketeers_ , Athos." His eyes bored into Athos', willing him to understand. For a second, Porthos could see anguish in Athos' eyes, and he immediately reached out to him, but Athos gripped his upper arm and spoke bluntly.

"We fight tomorrow."

Oh. Instantly everything was clear to Porthos: Athos' sense of urgency, his disconnect with the suffering of the refugees and his ruthlessness with d'Artagnan. "Athos – "

"I know. We're not ready, half our men are injured or exhausted, I don't know the terrain, I don't know the men we fight alongside or what forces we face, but our orders are clear. We fight tomorrow."

For a moment Athos' grip on Porthos' arm tightened so he was almost leaning on Porthos, who nodded, slowly, never taking his eyes off his Captain. "I'll see to the camp. You have to plan."

Athos released Porthos' arm with an almost imperceptible sigh. "I have a strategy meeting with the officers now. Make sure the men who arrived today eat and rest."

He turned but Porthos stopped him. "You arrived today too, Athos."

Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement but didn't answer, so Porthos spelled it out. "I will bring a meal to your tent when you return. You can go over the plans with me then."

Another nod from Athos and a quiet "thank you," and then he was gone.

* * *

Two hours later night had fallen and the reunited Musketeers were mostly sitting around the fire in the centre of their area of the camp, which was vast, covering an area of grassland surely greater than the d'Artagnan farm in Gascony. d'Artagnan had dug the new trench for the latrines in record time, giving himself some blisters and a sore hip but feeling very much calmer after venting his anger and frustration on the sun-baked earth behind their tents. He was now the subject of much good-natured ribbing about "fallen heroes" and speculation on what he'd done to earn latrine duty, which was generally reserved for the lowliest or newest recruit - and never, to anyone's knowledge, for one of the Inséparables. He bore it with good grace, concentrating on rubbing into his hands the juniper and beeswax salve that Aramis swore by for burns and blisters.

Looking up after a particularly ribald comment his attention was caught by a movement near the horse lines to the left of their tents. He squinted into the darkness but saw nothing suspicious. All the same...

Rising stiffly, he threw a rude hand-gesture behind him as the laughter rose, several of the men suggesting that he was lily-livered and couldn't take the teasing, and wandered casually down towards the horses.

Nuit greeted him with a soft nicker and he paused to let her snuffle his doublet, looking for the treats she hadn't had in weeks. Patting her neck in apology, he moved slowly down the line, ostensibly checking all the horses but looking and listening for any movement.

Near the end of the line he paused, and ran a hand down a foreleg as if checking for heat. As he stooped he turned his head, looking under the line of bellies... There! A shape behind the saddle-rail, a soft breath... He straightened, drawing his _main gauche_ and moving swiftly between the horses, reaching the spot in three strides, stretching out to grab a collar...

" _Marcus_? What are you... Where's Madeline – is she alright?"

There was a movement to his right and the girl in question crept out from behind a bush. d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief and released Marcus' collar, then crouched down, ignoring the spike of pain from his hip and seizing the youngster firmly by the shoulders. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here – why aren't you with the refugees?"

Marcus looked defiant. "We couldn't find the camp. They didn't wait for us and we couldn't catch them up. We must have missed the turning... it got dark and I didn't know what to do! So we turned back and then I found the turning you'd taken, and we saw the lights of the fires, so we came here."

d'Artagnan stared at him, compassion warring with panic in his expression. He knew full well why Athos had assigned him the latrine duty, and didn't blame him even before Porthos had told him the reason for Athos' particular obduracy today. A camp full of soldiers was no place for two young children, let alone one preparing to go to war the next morning. But ... they were just kids. And they had nowhere else to go. Yet Athos would kill him if he knew they were here.

As if sensing the decision d'Artagnan was about to reach, Marcus took a step away from d'Artagnan and reached for his sister's hand. "I didn't know what else to do. I don't want to spend the night in the open, not again. And Madeline's tired, she can't walk any more. Please can you help us?"

d'Artagnan tipped his head back in despair, running a hand through his hair, knowing full well he was going to be in big trouble but unable to resist the desperation in that simple plea. _God help me_ , he muttered under his breath, reaching down to scoop Madeline up and trying to ignore the naked relief in Marcus' eyes.

They reached the tents without being seen, but as d'Artagnan placed Madeline back on the ground and checked around the front of his tent, he saw Porthos approaching holding two bowls of stew. Damn!

Quickly he stooped and grabbed the bottom of the canvas, raising it a few inches off the ground and hissing at the children to crawl under. "Hide under the bed – quick!"

Then he strode around the front of the tent, nearly bumping into Porthos as he went to enter.

"Where've you been?" Porthos grumbled, juggling the bowls of stew as he stepped out of d'Artagnan's way.

"Checking the horses. Have you seen Athos – is he back yet?"

"Yes." Porthos went to move past d'Artagnan to enter their tent but d'Artagnan shifted slightly so he was still in the way of the entrance.

"Has he eaten?"

Porthos stopped and looked at d'Artagnan suspiciously. "Yes, Fouchard brought his to his tent. He said you hadn't eaten so that's why I collected yours. Are you going to let me in our tent, now?"

"Well... I thought I should apologise to Athos. Why don't we take ours and eat with him?"

Porthos narrowed his eyes. "Because he's still going over the maps and he's not in a sociable mood. He doesn't need an apology, he's got more important things on his mind. Now, why don't you tell me why you're not letting me in the tent?"

Damn their brotherhood and the way they knew each other so well! d'Artagnan sighed and held the tent flap open for Porthos who swept past him, still looking suspicious, and plonked the stew crossly down on the trunk at the foot of his cot. The tent was small, with barely room for two men to stand next to their cots, so d'Artagnan couldn't see past Porthos until he sat on his cot. Then he tried not to look too obviously around the interior as he squeezed past Porthos to reach his own bed. He couldn't see anything suspicious and for a moment wondered if the kids had snuck back under the canvas after all. Then, as he sat and reached for his bowl, the cot dipped under his weight and there was a tiny squeak from underneath.

Porthos' head shot up from his bowl and d'Artagnan panicked, missed his grip on the bowl and sent it flying, splattering the contents on the ground. " _Merde_!"

Porthos just looked at him. "What is with you tonight?"

d'Artagnan dropped his head into his hands and sighed, running both hands through his hair. This was ridiculous. The tent was barely big enough for the two men: he couldn't keep two children hidden for long...

"Come out," he said quietly. There was a moment's pause then a rustling, and Marcus wriggled slowly out from under the cot, followed by Madeline.

"I found them by the horse lines. They got lost, never made it to the refugee camp but saw our fires and came here. I didn't know what to do, Porthos. I couldn't just ... turn my back on them. It's dark, we're close to the front line and they've got no one to look out for them..." His voice trailed off, seeing the growing storm in Porthos' expression.

"We are not just 'close to the front line', d'Artagnan, we _are_ the bloody front line! This is no place for children!" Porthos' voice was low but unmistakeably angry. d'Artagnan felt his own anger rise.

"I know that but what would you have done? I didn't ask them to come here! I could take them to Athos but you said yourself he's got enough on his mind tonight and what can he do? We can't take them to the refugees' camp in the dark, and as soon as Athos knows about them we would compromise him, too – he'd have to hand them to the General or be complicit in hiding them – so tell me, Porthos, what you suggest I do?"

Porthos had risen to his feet as d'Artagnan's voice rose. "Well for one thing you don't involve Athos, that's for sure. He's – "

"We'll go."

The muted voice stopped Porthos in his tracks and he looked at the two children properly. Marcus was clutching Madeline to his side and he looked close to tears; Madeline was already crying, silent tears flooding her cheeks. Oh, bloody hell! he muttered to himself.

d'Artagnan had turned to the pair. "You're not going anywhere tonight," he told them fiercely.

"We're causing trouble. I'm sorry," came the resolute reply and Marcus turned his sister, started to push her towards the tent flap.

"Stay where you are." Porthos' voice was gruff but several notches kinder than before.

d'Artagnan swung around to stare at Porthos, who scratched his head and gave him a wry smile. "Bloody kids, eh?"

"I'll take them to the refugee camp first thing in the morning," d'Artagnan promised, a smile lightening his face.

"Damn right you will," grumped Porthos, stooping to retrieve the fallen bowl. "I'll get some more."

When he returned, d'Artagnan had snaffled Porthos' cloak and pillow to make a makeshift bed on the floor between the cots, and the pair were tucking into Porthos' bowl of stew. Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but d'Artagnan looked pointedly at the two brimming bowls he was clutching and Porthos sighed, knowing he was beaten.

"Told them you'd spilled both bowls," he muttered, sheepishly, setting on his cot with a sigh and passing the spare bowl to d'Artagnan.

"Thanks, Porthos," came the rejoinder, and Porthos knew he was referring to more than just the bowl of stew.

* * *

At some point in the night, d'Artagnan woke from his usual restless sleep by a sound of distress. Opening his eyes he saw Marcus sitting up, trying to comfort Madeline. "Sorry," the boy whispered. "We tried not to wake you. She has bad dreams."

d'Artagnan's heart went out to them. "Anything I can do?" he said quietly.

"Not really. Not unless you're good at stories, or lullabies. She misses mother at night. It's alright in the day when we're busy but..." He shrugged.

d'Artagnan felt helpless. His own mother had died when he was about Marcus' age – he'd only just realised that connection. She had sung to him but he wasn't sure he remembered the tunes, now. How did that one about the chicken eggs go...? The first line suddenly came to him, and he reached down to lift Madeline's chin gently. "Do you know this one?" he asked, then started to sing very quietly, feeling rather stupid and self conscious.

" _L'était une petite poule grise_

 _Qu'allait pondre dans l'église_

 _Pondait un p'tit' coco_

 _Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud."_

(There was a little grey chicken, that went to lay an egg in the church. When it was laid, the child ate it all warm.)

He stumbled over the words, and the tune was a bit wobbly, but Madeline had stopped sobbing out loud by the end and was looking at him with her big blue eyes. Marcus was smiling. "We know that one!" and he started off the second verse.

 _L'était une p'tit' poul' noir_

 _Qu'allait pondre dans l'armoire_

 _Pondait un p'tit' coco_

 _Que l'enfant mangeait tout chaud._

They worked their way together through the white chicken that laid the egg in the barn, the red chicken that laid its egg in the moss, and the light brown hen that laid an egg in the snow. By this time Porthos was joining in, his rich deep baritone underpinning the sweet children's voices, and d'Artagnan stopped singing to listen, amazed at this new side of Porthos. His mother had died when he was only five. Had she sung this to him, or did he learn it from others in the Court of Miracles? Porthos started another verse, about the dark brown hen who laid her egg on the moon, and d'Artagnan snorted. His mother had never sung _that_ verse and he wondered if Porthos was making it up. The children giggled but they joined in on the chorus and all four of them ended together, probably louder than was wise but somehow they didn't care. It felt good.

Madeline sighed at the end, and snuggled close to her brother, closing her eyes sleepily. "I'm cold," she whispered.

d'Artagnan hesitated, looking at Porthos, who shrugged sleepily at him. There _was_ a chill to the night air and they were sleeping on the ground. He pulled his blanket back in invitation. "Come on then," he offered, and both children scrambled to their feet with alacrity and wriggled in. d'Artagnan made as much room as he could without falling off the cot himself, and wrapped the blanket over them.

There was an exasperated sigh from Porthos' side of the tent, but an arm snaked out of the darkness to pluck the cloaks from the ground and dump them onto d'Artagnan's bed. d'Artagnan grinned his thanks, and tucked one cloak over the kids, saving the second to drape over his own back where the blanket no longer reached.

" _Bonne nuit_ ," he whispered.

In the morning he woke slowly, stretching luxuriously and listening to the sounds of camp stirring around him. Then, registering that the noises were unusually intrusive, he sat up, the events of the night before suddenly flooding back into his mind. The children! He was supposed to be sneaking them out of camp at first light but the tent was empty, and it didn't feel that early. He leapt up, grabbing his boots and shoving his feet in. Hurtling through the tent flap he bounced straight off Porthos' burly chest with an oath.

"Just coming to wake you, sleepy head." Porthos sounded cheerful.

"Where are the..."

Porthos cut him off. "Chonfleur has a new assistant and the herb bread this morning has been much admired. And someone's been busy making tent pegs to replace all the ones we split last night trying to get them into this hard ground."

d'Artagnan stared at him, trying to make sense of his words.

Porthos leaned in, straightening d'Artagnan's doublet solicitously and whispering: "They were up before either of us woke, and by the time I'd tracked them down it was too late to do anything with them without being noticed. It's ok, Chonfleur is delighted and has promised to keep her out of sight, and Gerard is keeping an eye on our new camp carpenter." Stepping back he said in a normal voice: "Muster in ten minutes so get a move on if you want breakfast. We move out in half an hour."

d'Artagnan had no time to worry, or marvel at Porthos' easy acceptance of the children this morning. He rushed through his ablutions and managed to grab the last of the herb bread – which really was excellent – but caught no sign of Madeleine in the mess tent, although Chonfleur winked at him in an obvious way that Athos would surely have picked up on if he'd seen it. Then there was no time at all to think, only to gather weapons, listen to Athos' calm instructions, and then they were heading out, nearly six hundred men from eight different regiments marching shoulder to shoulder towards their new front line.

* * *

It was seven hours before most of them returned to camp. Some of them never would.

d'Artagnan walked wearily alongside several army men whose names he didn't know. It didn't matter. They'd fought side by side and at one point back to back as their group of twenty-something men was cut off by a swirl of Spanish _tercios_ deploying their pikemen, arquebusiers and swordsmen with ruthless efficiency. The Frenchmen had been hopelessly outnumbered and far too many had been cut down before Athos managed to get a relief unit over to them and the remaining men had been able to fight their way out.

The French had retreated soon after that, and they'd straggled past Athos as he was rounded on by an army General for pulling men out of line and ignoring the battle plans. d'Artagnan's steps had slowed and he'd stopped, wishing he had the energy to voice the vitriol he felt for this General who could sit on his fat backside during a battle and do nothing but stick to his precious plans whilst his countrymen were being massacred. It took a firm nudge from Porthos, and a wry flick of the eyes from Athos, before d'Artagnan's legs agreed to stumble wearily the rest of the way back to camp.

Last night, singing to the children and hearing their steady breathing at his side as he drifted off to sleep, seemed a lifetime ago and he half expected them to have vanished during the day, figments of his imagination.

But as the men peeled away from the file in silence, heading for their beds, or the medics tent, or the mess tent, he caught a ripple of canvas on the side of the tent he shared with Porthos, and felt a tiny stirring of joy, in spite of his aching muscles, the sting on his ribs from a sword-cut, and the pounding in his head where he could still hear the sounds of battle replaying, over and over.

Hoof beats slowed beside him and he looked up, realising that he had stopped in the middle of the concourse as men flowed around him and away.

Athos looked down, his own face weary and stained with dust and sweat, astride an equally subdued Roger. His beloved stallion was something of a talisman for the Musketeer regiment, but d'Artagnan knew Athos hated being obliged to stay mounted to watch his men fight, to be victors or victims of his battle strategy and leadership, and unable to do anything to put things right other than bellow orders that were mostly lost in the roar of the battle.

"Alright?" Athos enquired, sharp eyes scanning d'Artagnan for any injuries.

"Fine. You?" Neither had energy for more words to soften their enquiries. Athos nodded, but made no move to carry on.

d'Artagnan stepped closer and took Roger's reins. "I'll see to him."

Athos lifted his gaze to the Musketeer area of camp, picking up every curse, every groan as someone sat wearily to strip off their body armour, then nodded and swung a weary leg over the saddle to dismount. "Thanks." He walked off towards the medical tent where, d'Artagnan knew, he would stay all night if necessary, until he knew all the injured men were comfortable. "Get that cut seen to," he called over his shoulder without looking back.

d'Artagnan snorted wryly, looking down at the blood which darkened one side of his leather armour. The cut wasn't long, or deep, but of course Athos would not have missed it.

He led Roger slowly off to the horse lines, taking time to rub the sweaty stallion down with warm water and dry him with a twist of long grass.

Suddenly the kids were there, small hands reaching up to pet Roger's legs.

"Careful," warned d'Artagnan, meaning both the horse and the danger of being spotted.

"Don't worry, we're getting good at moving around without being seen. Porthos told us to explore and find hiding places and we know who to trust." Marcus peered up at d'Artagnan. "Was it very bad? We could hear it from camp. Madeline was frightened."

d'Artagnan hadn't realised the sounds of battle would carry so far. "Not too bad." He couldn't think what else to say. It had been yet another awful day when the French had struggled against superior numbers, superior weaponry, and well-drilled veteran soldiers, and although the Musketeer regiment itself had only lost one man, with five injured badly enough to need treatment, in other units the French losses had been crushing. He realised he'd been quiet for too long and quickly asked after their day.

"It was great! I fixed the saddle rail and built us a cot, and Madeline – "

"You did what?" exclaimed d'Artagnan, aghast.

"I fixed the..."

"You built a cot?"

"Ye – es," said Marcus, doubtfully. "A low one. It fits under your bed so no one can see it during the day but I thought you would be tired tonight and need your bed to yourself..." He trailed off, seeing d'Artagnan's expression which veered between panic at the lad's presumption that they would be staying, astonishment at his thoughtfulness and admiration for his ingenuity.

"Marcus, you know you can't stay, don't you?" d'Artagnan tried to be gentle.

"But I thought... we've been helpful! I'm good at carpentry and you've got lots of jobs that need doing. I'm going to make some benches to go around the camp fire so you don't have to sit on the ground, and a rack to hang bridles on instead of tree branches." It was true; the lower branches of the trees around the horse lines were festooned with bridles. And the ground _was_ hard when your body was battered and exhausted...

d'Artagnan hardened his heart. "I'm sorry but – "

"You're hurt." Madeline's voice was little more than a whisper as she reached up touch the blood stain on his doublet.

He suddenly felt unutterably weary, and it must have shown in his face for she took his hand in her delicate grasp and tugged. "You need to wash the blood off. It's bad to leave it. Come on," and she pulled again.

d'Artagnan felt incapable of arguing. Everything – the blood loss from the operation on his hip, the limited time he'd had to recover, the march here, setting up camp, a short night's sleep then a seven-hour battle – caught up with him and he suddenly couldn't care less what happened to him, the children or anyone else. He just wanted to sleep.

"We found a great bathing place in the river. Do you know it?" asked Marcus conversationally as he fell into step beside d'Artagnan, who simply shook his head, weary beyond belief, and followed meekly as Madeline, coming barely up to his waist, led the way confidently down to the river a few hundred paces from their camp.

Ten minutes later he was shoving wet hair from his eyes, treading water in a lazy swirl of current and laughing out loud as the two children splashed each other madly in the shallows. In deference to their age he had left his braes on, but was otherwise naked, goose-pimpled brown skin glittering with water droplets in the early evening sun. The cut on his ribs was, as he'd thought, shallow and, though painful, was now anaesthetised by the chilly water. He'd found a couple of other shallow gashes previously unremarked, and new bruising joined some older ones around his stomach and chest, but that was nothing new. He felt energised by the flow of water over his tired body, and dipped his head back into the water again, relishing the coolness on his aching head as he floated.

Suddenly Marcus was tugging at him frantically and he resurfaced with a snort. "What's up?" he asked urgently, scanning the river banks quickly then looking back at Marcus who was doggy-paddling madly in the light current. "We thought you were drowning!" Marcus burst out, almost in tears. Aghast, d'Artagnan reassured him and looked for Madeline, seeing her holding tight to the overhanging limb of an ash tree.

"You don't need to worry. I grew up near a big river so I'm a good swimmer."

Marcus nodded, partly reassured but still looking frightened.

"How about you – you like the water, don't you?"

The lad nodded. "My father taught us. He used to throw us in the air..."

"What, like this?" and d'Artagnan caught him gently around the waist, lifting the skinny body easily free of the water then dropping him with a splash. Marcus came up laughing and spluttering.

"No, not like that! He used to _throw_ me, not drop me!"

"Oh, so you mean ..." and d'Artagnan snatched him up in the air then tossed him so that he landed several feet away in a wash of water and a burst of giggles.

Madeline called out "me too," so d'Artagnan swam over to her and before long they were all involved in a noisy, wet game of tag in the shallows.

Thus it was that Athos found them, a few minutes later, having discovered that d'Artagnan had not yet arrived to have his wound checked by Etienne. Someone had seen him near the horse lines and it was an easy guess that from there he might have come to the river to wash. Some men hated the water but d'Artagnan was not one of those, and frequently disappeared off to the nearest stream or lake after a battle.

As he neared the river he heard violent splashing, and instantly drew his sword, racing towards the sound with a rush of adrenaline. Then he slowed, and stopped, hearing giggles and then finally seeing the supremely unexpected sight of d'Artagnan standing thigh-deep in the river with a sodden, giggling girl on his shoulders, holding a boy by his ankles and whirling him around before letting him go in an explosion of river water and shrieks of laughter.

Athos took a step back and re-sheathed his sword.

He hadn't heard d'Artagnan laugh in a very long time.

He had no idea where these kids had arrived from – but then again, maybe he had a very good idea, he amended silently, remembering the incident on the road yesterday. He felt a momentary stab of irritation at the thought that d'Artagnan had ignored his express orders. But then again...

There was a bellow of mock outrage from the river as the two children conspired to dunk d'Artagnan, who seemed a willing victim.

Athos felt an unexpected prickle at the back of his eyes. He shut them, then shook his head at himself and turned sharply. It seemed d'Artagnan had found his own way of shaking off his battledust.

Emerging from the shade of the trees into the deepening shadows of the main camp, he found Porthos striding purposefully towards the horse lines, stopping abruptly when he saw Athos, then recovering and continuing more circumspectly.

"Athos, how are you doing? Do you want to eat together?"

Athos noticed Porthos' eyes flicking around, clearly looking for something. Athos suddenly discovered a mischievous streak peeking out from under the heavy mantle of command he seemed to wear constantly these days.

"Yes, why not? I just need to find d'Artagnan first. Someone said they'd seen him down by the river. Do you want to walk with me?"

He was rewarded by the sight of Porthos' mouth opening and closing like a fish, and had to clamp down hard on the smile that threatened to break through on his lips. Obviously Porthos _was_ in on the secret, as he'd suspected. He turned and set off towards the river again, wondering what Porthos would do.

"Oh... er..." The big man hurried to catch him up, still looking frazzled. "I think, er - d'Artagnan's in the mess tent." He finished in a rush. Athos sighed. Porthos was too honest for his own good. It really shouldn't have taken him that long to come up with that lie. He couldn't resist pushing him a little further. "No matter. I quite fancy a swim actually: we can eat later."

They were near enough to the river for the faint sound of merriment to reach their ears now, and Athos was sure Porthos paled.

"What, now? It's too late, surely. It would be dangerous this close to the front. In the dark. And cold, I've heard the water's very cold..."

Athos turned to stare at Porthos, who shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Are you alright, Porthos? You look quite pale."

"No. Yes, alright, not pale. I'm... "

He could almost hear the expletives unleashing themselves silently in Porthos' mind, and reluctantly took pity on the burly musketeer.

"Good. Well, perhaps you are right, it _is_ getting a bit late. And I _am_ hungry."

No one could miss the look of relief that washed over Porthos' features as Athos turned away from the river and headed back to camp. Looking anxiously over his shoulder, Porthos hurried after him.

* * *

The children lived unmolested in the camp for two months before finally being spotted by an unfriendly army lieutenant who reported them to his General. d'Artagnan had no idea how they managed to keep them secret for so long, but most of the Musketeers and many of the regular soldiers were in on it and helped keep the children safe. At some point d'Artagnan began to realise that it was more than coincidence that kept Athos' back turned if the children were caught out in the open, and he became convinced that the Captain's frequent remarks about the new bread recipes Chonfleur had suddenly developed, and the wooden gadgets that kept appearing around camp, were hints rather than threats.

It became a game between the three of them; how close each could come to revealing the truth – that Athos knew, and they knew he knew, about the children – without actually stating it out loud.

Eventually it went too far one night when Athos commented that he could do with a boot tree and perhaps d'Artagnan could find someone to make it for him. d'Artagnan asked what kind of wood he wanted, and Athos suggested yew, at which Porthos could not contain himself any longer and snorted half his bean stew out of his nose and the game was up. Their comfortable meal in Athos' tent dissolved into teasing laughter, apologies from d'Artagnan, indignation from Porthos, mock anger from Athos, then a comparison of near misses and sentences that started with things like "That time when Marcus knocked over the tripod, did you see him?" followed by a "Porthos, please!" from Athos, sounding wounded at the mere suggestion that he might not have noticed. It did them all the power of good.

By the time someone ratted on the Musketeers, most of the camp had benefited in one way or another from the children's presence, and the General's tent boasted a carved wooden hat stand, presented with great solemnity by the Musketeers a week or so earlier. Recognising when he was beaten, the General simply told Athos that the children needed to be gone by the end of the week, when the battalion would be moving camp again.

* * *

It was Porthos who solved the problem, returning from a supply trip to Ossès bursting with excitement. He disappeared first into Athos' tent, then both came to find d'Artagnan who was giving Madeline a lesson on riding bareback, using one of the Percherons, the gentle giants used to pull the supply wagons. He looked up as they approached, still laughing at Madeline who was trying to kick her willing mount into a trot – her heels barely tickling his shoulders – but his laughter died at the expression on their faces.

"What is it?" His apprehensive gaze flicked from one to the other.

"I've found them a home," said Porthos, simply.

The bottom seemed to crash out of d'Artagnan's world. He looked down at the ground, swallowing, then caught the draught horse's reins and pulled it to a halt, resting his other hand on the strong neck. "Where?" he asked expressionlessly.

Athos came forward to lift Madeline down. She was listening, a small frown playing on her face. She was no longer the shy, tearful girl who had arrived weeks earlier; she was now tanned and full of smiles and mischief. She had learned new recipes from Chonfleur, had taught him her mother's bread dough secrets, and seemed to have grown an inch at least.

"Where's Marcus?" Athos asked her. Silently she pointed to the centre of camp where Marcus was helping a couple of Musketeers fix a new shaft to one of the supply wagons.

Porthos stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, so Marcus was waiting outside their tent by the time the others reached it. They all crowded in and the children listened intently as Porthos explained about the couple he'd met at the marketplace in that morning in Ossès. They were farmers, middle aged and kindly, and desperate for help on their farm since their only son had left to join the army a few months ago. They'd seen Porthos' uniform and stopped him to ask for news of their son's regiment. He'd been unable to help but they'd gone on chatting, and somehow the tale of the children had come out. Porthos had taken little persuasion to accept their invitation to the local bar for a cup of ale, and had been easily influenced to detour via their farm on his way back to the battalion base. He had been bowled over by their enthusiasm for the war effort, their neat farm and the small but clean farmhouse built by Monsieur Peltier's father.

Things happened fast after that. d'Artagnan went to the Peltier farm with Porthos and the two children the following morning, after talking long into the night with them about the possibility of a new home away from the war zone. Both children cried at the thought of leaving their friends in the camp, but by the time they fell asleep d'Artagnan could see that they were excited at the thought of living on a farm again and having a bedroom of their own.

Reluctantly impressed by the well-cared for fields and stock, and responding to the kindness in the eyes of both Peltiers in spite of his own qualms, d'Artagnan managed to enthuse about the arrangements already made for the two children – the beds made up with hand-sewn blankets, the wildflowers in a pot on the windowsill, a doll dusted off on one bed for Madeline and a wooden flute on the other for Marcus – and encouraged them to agree to stay. With many promises to visit whenever they were in the area, the two men finally rode back to camp with an unhealthy brew of feelings in their hearts. Camp was more subdued that night than it had been for weeks, and Chonfleur had burned the day's batch of bread. Without the heart-warming presence of the children, language was more ribald around the campfire and d'Artagnan escaped as soon as he could to the solace of his tent.

* * *

When Porthos retired several hours later he found d'Artagnan still awake, sitting motionless in the dark, staring at something in his fingers.

"Don't break yours," said d'Artagnan cryptically as Porthos went to fling himself onto his bed. Wrinkling his nose in confusion, Porthos then noticed something lying on his pillow. Curiously he picked it up, his fingers finding smooth, warm wood under his fingers. Striking his flint he lit the candle on the trunk between their beds and found he was holding a small, beautifully carved brown bear. He stared at it for a long time, turning it over in his hands and admiring the work that had gone into it, then eventually thought to enquire after d'Artagnan who was clearly holding something similar.

Wordlessly d'Artagnan held out a tiny horse, no bigger than the length of his little finger, carved out of almost black wood and lovingly waxed to a smooth sheen. Porthos held it carefully, seeing the artistry that had used the grain of the wood to suggest a flowing mane and tail, rippling muscles, a powerful head, and realised he was holding a version of d'Artagnan's horse, Nuit.

Swallowing the lump that rose in his throat, he handed it back. d'Artagnan took it and set it next to the candle, pulling off his boots and jacket. Porthos wondered how long he had sat here in the dark, staring at the gift. d'Artagnan lay back on his pillow, arm across his eyes to shade them from the light – or to hide the glistening of tears that pooled there, unbidden.

"Athos has an eagle," d'Artagnan said suddenly. "I checked his tent."

Porthos grinned. Marcus had chosen the animals for each of them perfectly, he thought. An eagle was exactly right for Athos: powerful, remote, drifting silently above them, seeing everything, surprisingly nurturing of their young. And d'Artagnan: he loved horses, of course, but they also represented power wrapped in gentleness and beauty, and a willingness to please that would drive them to work until they dropped for a master they respected.

Porthos thought about his own carving. He didn't know much about bears, having never met one, but he knew they were also fierce defenders of their territory, extremely powerful, often solitary, sometimes playful and gentle with their young.

"They left something for Aramis too." d'Artagnan held out a small parcel of cloth tied with string, a scrap of parchment with Aramis' name tucked under the string. Porthos took it, curiously. The children had been curious to know all about life in Paris and had, consequently, heard a lot about their missing fourth.

Through the cloth he could feel the unmistakeable shape of a small cross, no doubt also carved from wood. He smiled sadly, wondering when they would get the chance to give it to Aramis and whether he would ever get to meet "their" children.

* * *

Notes:

 _La petit poule grise_ is a really cute lullaby I found on Youtube and I can just imagine d'Artagnan's mother singing it to him as a young boy.

 _Tercio_ means "third" and was a unit of up to 3000 Spanish soldiers subdivided into twelve companies of mixed groups of 30 pikemen, arquebusiers and swordsmen. They were well organised and professional, the best infantry in Europe for over a century.


	6. Chapter 6: We Sit and We Wait Part I

_Hey, first a **huge** thank you to everyone who has reviewed, including the guests to whom I haven't been able to reply individually. I'm so happy that people are enjoying it and I really appreciate you letting me know. I hope you still like it after the next few chapters! It gets a lot darker now. I can't give specific warnings without spoiling it but please be warned: d'Artagnan's war gets pretty grim at this point. Here we start to learn from Athos and Porthos what happened when d'Artagnan was captured._

* * *

 **Chapter Six: We Sit and We Wait and We Drown There Part I**

 _The garrison, 1636_

In the rooms nestled into the corner of the garrison courtyard, the three war veterans had drifted into silence, each having shared parts of the tale of the two "mini Musketeers" as someone had dubbed them. Constance had come to sit next to d'Artagnan, snuggling against him and clasping one of his hands to her side, feeling the tension draining slowly from his body as they talked. A comfortable silence seeped into every corner of the room, following the warm flickering light from the fire and the candles on the mantelpiece and table.

Then Porthos wondered aloud what had happened to the cross Marcus had carved for Aramis. d'Artagnan glanced quickly at Aramis, then admitted that he'd given it to him already. A slightly hurt expression flickered across Porthos' face as he looked between the pair of them at what he saw as another example of being excluded from something, and the awkwardness crept back into the room.

Constance sighed and rose, emptying the last of the wine into their goblets and asking d'Artagnan how long it would take to ride to Ossès. d'Artagnan smiled at that and she could see the light dancing in his eyes as he thought about visiting them.

Athos rose. "We will all go, one day soon," he promised, plucking the empty wine bottles from the table and ambling towards the door.

"Where are you going?" enquired Porthos.

"We'll need more wine if we're to talk through the night," answered Athos, disappearing through the door and clattering down the stairs to the courtyard.

"Are we?" asked Porthos, looking around.

d'Artagnan shrugged and the others exchanged glances.

"Husband," began Constance, drawing a reluctant grin from him at the term: he disliked being addressed as if his marital status bestowed a title on him, "I think I understand – as much as any civilian can – what you are saying about war and how it drives out notions of compassion and, and humanity?" She hesitated, wondering if she was expressing it well, but took heart at the thoughtful nods from around the table. "And I know you well enough to know how hard you would find that – all of you. But I don't understand how that was all brought to a head yesterday by meeting Borel. And if I am to help you – if Aramis is right and it's connected with you being captured, and it is still affecting you here, even two years later – then I need to understand. I need you to explain."

d'Artagnan sat motionless, staring down at his hands, then abruptly rose and began pacing around the room. Everyone watched him until Porthos, uncomfortable with the long silence, went to speak but was forestalled by Aramis shaking his head slightly. It was a measure of their old friendship and congruence that Porthos was alert to just the tiniest of gestures from Aramis, and though he bristled, he kept quiet.

When d'Artagnan came past him, Aramis tipped his chair back, feet propped on the edge of the table, the picture of insolent ease (ignoring the small huff of indignation from Constance at this treatment of her dinner table) but making sure his movement blocked d'Artagnan's path so he had to stop. Aramis said something so quiet that the others couldn't hear it but they could see d'Artagnan's expression – resignation mingled with apprehension – as he sighed, then resumed his seat at the table.

Leaning forwards he rested his elbows on the worn wood and rubbed at his forehead slowly with the heels of his hands while he collected his thoughts. "I'm not sure where to start," he admitted for the second time that evening

"Well," began Porthos, slightly hesitantly until he saw Aramis' encouraging nod, "it wasn't long after the children left when your patrol disappeared, wasn't it? Athos an' me, we'd been worried about you, cos you were so quiet, but we figured you'd work it out in time so neither of us 'ad spoken to you about it. Biggest regret of my life, I thought that would be, when you disappeared. I thought... I thought we'd lost you an' I'd always regret not 'elping you over that time."

d'Artagnan looked thoughtful, having not heard his side of the story before. Porthos carried on explaining the circumstances to Constance and Aramis.

"We were sendin' patrols out all the time then. The Spanish were no respecters of the border an' we 'ad to watch for signs of their troop movements, scout for safe supply routes and pick up any of their patrols. The General used Musketeers for it, mostly, cos we could cover far more ground on horseback than the regular army, an' we loved the chance to get out of camp and onto horseback so we didn't mind, except when we'd just come off the battlefield o' course. Then it was just a pain if we 'ad to go straight out."

d'Artagnan was nodding his agreement so Porthos continued by describing d'Artagnan's patrol the night he'd disappeared, which was led by Captain LeVente, an army officer who was always happy to borrow a mount and join the Musketeers on patrols. He was in his forties, slightly overweight around the middle but well muscled and a fair man, and d'Artagnan liked him. The other two were Patrice, a rather earnest recruit a few years older than d'Artagnan who had joined the Musketeers from the army about six months earlier, and Girault, a wiry Musketeer who was a bit too full of his own opinions at times, but a good swordsman and fun to work with as he was always full of the latest camp gossip.

"When they didn't return on time, we sent a pair out to check their route. It was nothing unusual – there were all sorts of reasons a patrol could be late – but I'll admit to being worried, and I know Athos was too. An' when the pair came back at dusk havin' found no sign of you ... ahh. That was a bad time, Constance."

He reached for his goblet before remembering it was empty, and settled back with a grunt. "We 'ad to wait till first light before sendin' out proper searches, an' it weren't long before they found Girault's body." He paused and Constance realised she was holding her breath, trying to work out what had happened, watching d'Artagnan for clues as to what he was feeling, and imagining how Porthos and Athos would have felt at the news that the patrol had been attacked.

"We all searched, every possible route. For days. We found tracks, thought we could see what 'ad 'appened, where they'd headed ... but we just couldn' pick up any trace of 'em, no news... nothin'. Felt like the battlefront was changin' every day, and we still 'ad to fight... " His voice trailed off, remembering the feelings of despair as if it were yesterday.

"We searched for three weeks, going over and over the ground and questioning every villager, every newly captured Spanish fighter, hoping for news." Porthos' head jerked up as Athos picked up the tale from the doorway where he'd been leaning, unobserved. He deposited four bottles of wine on the table and filled everyone's glasses before carrying on.

* * *

 _Spanish border, June 1634_

Athos sat motionless as Fouchard cantered towards him, his expression unreadable. Fouchard's horse skittered to a halt as the young Musketeer removed his hat to report. "Nothing. No trace, Captain."

Those who knew Athos well might have spotted his eyes flicker, but that was the only evidence that he had registered Fouchard's words. As the youngster hovered, his horse fidgeting under the hot sun, Athos eventually blinked, then nodded, once. "Move on," he ordered, quietly, and the youngster let out a sigh of relief which he quickly masked. "Yes sir," he answered, and applied his heels to send his horse scooting off in a fast canter.

Athos took a long, slow breath, then nudged Roger to follow Fouchard's dust trail.

General Marche had visited Athos' tent the night before. Everyone knew about the missing patrol and the mood in camp had been subdued. d'Artagnan, in particular, had been popular with both Musketeers and regular army, and had been a favourite of the General since the battle at Saltaguet*, so he had been very willing to supply men to help with the search.

But three weeks had passed, and by all conventions it was past the time when a missing soldier should be declared "missing, presumed dead". Athos had reduced the number of daily searches but not stopped them entirely, and the General knew that they could not afford to spare the men nor the time any longer. The recent searches had ventured deep into Spanish territory which was risky, and he told Athos so, firmly. Athos had begged for one last search, going back to the site of the attack again in a desperate attempt to find anything the previous searches might have missed. The General had looked at Athos long and hard, but eventually agreed to his request on the understanding that he would write the "missing, presumed dead" letter if d'Artagnan was not found.

Now, as he followed Fouchard back to camp, Athos' mind was a mess of "what if" and "what now?" He knew, logically, that there was very little chance of finding d'Artagnan or the others after so long, or even finding any evidence as to their fate, but he just couldn't accept that they were gone without a trace. It was simply inconceivable. He couldn't imagine a world without the young Gascon who had blazed his way into the hearts of the three Inséparables. Someone so alive, so vital, could not just have disappeared! He could not simply have faded from the world with no farewell blaze of glory... no farewell.

He'd promised to write the required letters and it was his duty as Captain, but so far he had not given a hint, in the previous weeks' despatches to Tréville, that anything was amiss. He could not imagine doing so, still less writing to Constance. Or Aramis? How – _when_ – would they tell Aramis? It was just – _wrong_.

Fouchard was speaking to him and he looked down, having paid no heed to his surroundings and surprised, now, to realise they'd arrived back in camp. Fouchard had dismounted, and was now standing by Roger's head waiting to take his reins. He levered himself slowly out of the saddle and slithered down on legs that felt suddenly weak. This could not be it!

Porthos was there now, pulling insistently on his arm and saying something about wine and getting out of the sun. Athos' frowned but he didn't seem able to resist, or actually even to speak, so he allowed himself to be led into his tent and steered towards a chair.

It was only after Porthos had pushed a goblet of wine into one hand and a handkerchief into the other that Athos realised his face was wet with tears.

* * *

Porthos watched in despair as Athos ripped another sheet of precious parchment in two, slowly and deliberately, and let the halves float to the grass beside his table, joining another half dozen fragments there.

Athos had been trying for three hours to write the necessary letters. The pile by his elbow now included his weekly report to Tréville, in which he had explained the circumstances of the patrol's disappearance for the first time, along with an apology for not mentioning it sooner and an explanation of the steps they had taken to find a trace of the missing men. It also contained letters to each of the other three patrol members' families. But the final letter, to Constance, was proving impossible. Porthos had offered to write it himself and Athos had erupted from the desk with such forcefulness that Porthos took a step back, almost expecting Athos to thump him. But he had stopped, clutching the sides of the table so hard that his bones of his knuckles showed white through his skin, and taken deep breaths with eyes shut tight, and then re-seated himself, heavily, like an old man.

Porthos refilled his glass for the umpteenth time, and sat down again, saying nothing. There was nothing to say, and he wasn't sure he trusted his voice at the moment.

He had not needed to ask if their reconnaissance had turned up anything new – the answer was written in the tracks on Athos' face. Athos had stopped his tears by an effort of will, and Porthos had glared at Fouchard, without speaking, making sure he'd got the unspoken message not to gossip. Since then neither man had spoken except when Porthos offered to help with the letter.

Ruthlessly, Porthos crushed his own feelings and focussed fiercely on Athos. He'd never seen Athos looking so desolate, and he knew his friend, and the men's Captain, was teetering dangerously close to the edge of collapse. He didn't know what he could do to help him; he only knew that he had to be strong for him. And being strong was what Porthos did best.

He watched Athos pull a new sheet of parchment towards him, then stare at the page, quill hovering, watching a drop of ink pool at the tip then slowly, inexorably drop to mar the pristine page. Then, very slowly, he laid his quill down and looked at Porthos for the first time since he'd begun struggling with his letters.

"I can't do it," he rasped, voice low and thick with emotion.

Porthos nodded. "Alright."

"Alright?" Athos repeated the word quietly, as if savouring it, then spat it out again. "It's not alright! None of it is alright! I should be able to distance myself. This is my job! What kind of a Captain am I if I can't – "

"It's d'Artagnan," said Porthos simply, and Athos seemed to crumple, his momentary rant vanishing as he rubbed a shaking hand down his face. Sensing his need, Porthos leaned forward and wrapped an arm around Athos' shoulders, pulling him in for a solid hug; and for once Athos acquiesced where often he held himself aloof. For the length of several breaths both men simply leaned on each other in silent accord.

Then Porthos broke the contact, sitting upright abruptly. Puzzled, Athos lifted weary eyes to regard him quizzically. "We're not giving up on 'im, not yet."

Athos sighed and leaned back in his chair. "The General insisted we stop searching, and I can't keep going against him –"

"Said nothin' about searching, did I? Nah, I'm talking about patrols. Terrible navigators, some of our men, 'aven't you noticed? The number who get confused over where the border is at the moment, stands to reason some of 'em will land up over there, an' who knows what they'll stumble over."

Athos looked up, green eyes slowly coming to life as he examined Porthos' words. He gave a small snort, an appreciative smile finding a home on his lips. "It is true, I have noticed myself how ... inept some of them are at map-reading. In fact several of our maps are incorrect, I am convinced of it."

Porthos let out a chortle. "Now you're getting it!"

* * *

The first hint of information came almost four weeks after the patrol disappeared. One of the army patrols came back early one evening, and reported to their Captain that they'd found the remains of a suspected Spanish camp about 10 miles away. Athos didn't question why they'd been scouting so far over the border, but certainly their route plan must have been 'adapted' after being approved by the General. d'Artagnan had been popular amongst the army men too...

Not 'had been'! Athos caught himself sharply. What was wrong with him? He forced his attention back to the scouting report, realising he'd missed several sentences. The news he'd been hoping for had sent him into a complete spin! Focus, he berated himself.

Captain Alard was talking about reports from villagers, food being stolen from farmhouses – and a scream of pain heard at night a few weeks earlier. Clamping down on his rioting emotions at the images conjured by those words, he asked quickly: "How long since it was abandoned?"

Only a day or two, the villagers thought. Athos nodded, calculating quickly how he could get away to explore it.

Porthos didn't care about getting permission and was all for taking off straight away; it was only Athos' hand on his wrist, as he prepared to whirl Flip around without even dismounting after returning from his own guard duty, which gave him pause, then the desperation in Athos' eyes which stilled him long enough to hear the sense in his argument. If they left camp without authority they could be cashiered on their return, even a Captain and a Lieutenant, and how would that help them find d'Artagnan? Porthos growled at that; his thoughts were all on finding d'Artagnan and bringing him back and he wasn't hearing anything that might suggest a less favourable outcome. Again, it was only the pleading look in Athos' eyes that brought him to his senses and persuaded him to dismount, finally, and start to listen properly.

The patrol had found a deserted camp in a crumbling hill fort, and there were rumours of prisoners being held. No, Athos didn't know what that meant, only that it was the best lead they'd had so far. Finally, the wild look in Athos' eyes registered in Porthos' brain and he realised just how close his Captain was to losing his composure. He was just as desperate to get going as Porthos, and somehow that calmed the big man long enough for him to remember his role: as supporter, as the rock, Athos' foundation stone. He nodded, to show he was back in character, and saw Athos relax fractionally.

They went to the General and told him they would be leaving to follow up the tip-off. They didn't explain where the information came from and he didn't ask. He said no, at first, as they'd expected, and Athos had taken a step forward until Porthos pulled him back, explaining firmly that they needed to map the area properly before the French army could push into that region. Athos was an excellent cartographer, as the General knew, and Porthos would go as his protection. There was a full moon so they would set out as soon as they were ready, aiming to be back by morning. He paused then, not sure what else to add, and sensed Athos vibrating with tension beside him. The General pursed his lips, then reluctantly gave his permission for the "mapping expedition", and Porthos felt relief surge through him.

Dragging Athos out by the elbow they hurried out of the tent, to find Fouchard waiting outside holding their horses, saddled and fully provisioned, by the looks of it. Grinning from ear to ear, Porthos clapped him on the shoulder. "Good man," he said, approvingly, turning to check that Athos was happy to set off straight away.

Athos was looking at him, his eyes unreadable. Porthos damped down his impatience to get going, and raised an eyebrow, watching Athos take a deep breath and centre himself, then nod, his eyes thanking Porthos for taking control when he was about to lose it with the General.

"Come on then," Porthos said gently, taking the reins from Fouchard and mounting up. "Let's go and see what we can find out."

Athos mounted, checked the saddle bags and thanked Fouchard. Turning their horses, they rode side by side through camp, noticing with wry surprise that an astonishing number of men seemed to have found a reason to be outside their tents, watching them leave. It seemed everyone had heard the rumours about what the army patrol had found. Dying on the battlefield was a possibility they had all accepted or they wouldn't be here. But dying unnoticed, unburied, your body left for the crows: that was a fear they all held deep. Everyone wanted the missing patrol to be brought home, one way or another. By the time they reached the perimeter there was virtually an honour guard, standing silently either side of their path. Porthos touched his hat to a few, Athos pretended not to notice. And then they were away, following a dusty path that wound up into the hills to the south.

* * *

They were back before dawn the following morning, riding quietly into camp. Only a few men were awake to see them arrive but word spread quickly as they saw the unmistakeable shape of a wrapped body draped over the saddle behind Athos.

By the time they came to a halt in the centre of the Musketeer tents everyone was there, arms reaching up to help pull the body gently from Roger's back and lay it carefully on the ground as Athos and Porthos dismounted.

Etienne emerged from the medical tent, pushing through the ranks of silent men and crouching by the wrapped body, reaching out with unaccustomed hesitation to uncover the face.

"It's Captain LeVente," said Porthos quietly, stopping his movement with a gloved hand. Etienne sighed, nodded, and rose stiffly to his feet. "I'll take a look at him in the medical tent, and prepare his body for burial."

Athos nodded his thanks, pulling off his gloves then looking around the gathered men, knowing they deserved to hear what they had found directly from him, rather than by camp gossip. The murmurs that had arisen at Porthos' declaration ceased instantly and the men shuffled expectantly.

"We think the hill fort had been used by a considerable number of soldiers for several weeks before being abandoned. There were signs that prisoners had been held there." He didn't elaborate, not wanting to share with his men the bleakness he and Porthos had felt looking at the row of posts in the middle of the camp with chains still attached, or the sick feeling when they saw the pools of blood darkening the earth and smearing the chains. He cleared his throat and carried on quietly.

"We found Captain LeVente's body, unburied, on the edge of the encampment." He deliberately used the word unburied, rather than "dumped" which would have been closer to the truth. His men already had enough reasons to have nightmares: no need to add to the list thoughts of how they might be treated if taken prisoner. He carried on resolutely. "He had a stomach wound and it's likely he died several weeks ago. There was no sign of d'Artagnan or Patrice but we can assume they were held there too, and taken with the troops when they moved camp for whatever reason."

He paused, wondering what else he could say.

Porthos sensed his hesitance and stepped forward. "We need to report to the General. Can two of you take the Captain's body to the medical tent?" Several men stepped forward and he nodded his thanks. "We'll let you know what happens next," he added, by way of dismissal.

They reported their findings to the General, and Etienne joined them while they were discussing their next steps.

"He died of the stomach wound – no other wounds apart from a few grazes. He wouldn't have lasted long, maybe a couple of days. By my reckoning he took the shot when the patrol went missing, or very soon after: his body had certainly been lying there for several weeks. And he'd been chained up, probably until he died."

Porthos growled his disapproval. Etienne's meaning was clear: Captain LeVente would have died slowly and in agony – a stomach wound of that severity was the worst kind of wound – and to leave him chained while he died... It didn't bear thinking about.

Athos stirred. "General, permission to carry on searching." He held himself rigid in spite of his exhaustion, expecting the General to protest.

"Your reasoning, Captain?" The General's question seemed to take Athos by surprise, and it was Porthos who answered.

"They only moved on a few days ago. We found a clear trail to follow. We believe d'Artagnan and Patrice were still alive, or their captors would have left the bodies with the Captain." He was going to carry on, thinking about pleading that they couldn't leave their men to suffer, that if they were still alive there was hope, and that they owed it to bring them home no matter whether they were dead by now – but Athos stepped quietly on his foot as he took a breath to voice all of this, and he stopped, looking first at Athos and then at the General, who was nodding. Nodding?

"Permission granted."

"Really?" Porthos couldn't hide the surprise in his voice and Athos glanced at him reprovingly. "Sorry, Sir," Porthos added more mildly.

"Yes, really." The General's tone was dry but his lips were twitching. "The Fifth Battalion has been raiding in that area which may be why the Spanish force moved on from that camp. I'm expecting orders any day to follow up the raids with a big push, so we could do with a bit more reconnaissance. See to it," he added, picking up a parchment and waving them away.

Outside the General's tent they looked at each other, each finding their own feelings of elation and trepidation mirrored in the other's face. They were a little bit closer to finding answers, but even if they managed to track down the Spaniards who had been holding their men, there was no guarantee that either of them was still alive, or of what state they would be in if they found them. There was still a long way to go. And hope was painful.

* * *

A week later Porthos was supervising the sweep of an area recently reclaimed by the French after several significant victories. It was the first time in almost a year that they had been able to celebrate more than a few minor triumphs, and Athos was involved in endless meetings as the army leaders from several battalions met to discuss how to build on this success. Porthos and Jumot each took groups of twenty men to check part of the territory vacated by the Spanish troops, checking for booby traps, pockets of resistance, caches of food or weapons. They were also tasked with mapping the territory in detail and bringing back information on how best to advance their troops, any possible locations for defensible positions of advance camps, and sites from which to launch lightening strikes on the retreating troops.

Porthos had split his men into four groups to cover the area more quickly. They took two days to map their patch, unearthing a few traumatised French families but little else of value. On the third day, running low on provisions and with most of their area covered, Porthos started to head back towards the main army, who were preparing to advance into the new territory.

He would always remember the scene as his small unit rode along a winding track next to a stream which had all but dried up in the summer heat, rocky hills rising to either side. They were just reaching a place where the track branched when a plume of dust caught Porthos' eye, moving rapidly from the south west and converging on their track. He dismounted quickly, signalling to the others to do the same and take cover either side of the stream in the low bushes covering the hillsides. Crouching low, he made out the sound of a horse galloping flat out long before he could see the rider was Guérin, his blonde hair instantly recognisable.

Guérin reined his sweating horse to a ragged halt, hooves sliding on the dry track, and whipped his hand up in an untidy salute. "Sir, we've found something! You have to come – it's not far!" and he whirled ready to take off again.

"Hold!" Porthos commanded, roughly. "What d'ya mean, you've found something?" he demanded.

"We've found – well, we think we've found where they were holding d'Artagnan and Patrice."

Porthos scrambled for his horse, aware of men doing the same all around him. "Wait, 'ang on. We can't all go!" He looked around, seeing the eager faces which, a moment before, had been looking weary and exhausted. "Clotaire, Guillet, Renaud: take your patrols back." He checked the sun, realising the day was creeping on. "Send two men ahead to inform Athos. Tell him to meet us..." He stopped, looking enquiringly at Guérin, who hastily dug in his pocket and yanked out a creased map, quickly showing Porthos where they were headed. Porthos marked it and passed it to Clotaire. "Off you go then, and keep alert."

Remounting quickly, he nudged Flip to follow Guérin along with the other four from his group.

Three leagues down the track the crumbling walls of a fortress slowly became visible, clinging to the sides of a steep hill. As they got closer he could see that the walls surrounded a flat central area with the ruins of buildings huddled around the edges, their roofs collapsed. Some of the walls were barely a few feet high in places. Behind, nestled under the lee of the hilltop, was a higher section of wall with some intact rooms, some even with roofs made of ramshackle collections of timber. Some of Guérin's patrol were still moving slowly, searching the buildings, but most had clearly given up the search and were standing with Lieutenant Peltier in the central courtyard.

Porthos was off his horse before he'd come to a halt, striding quickly towards Peltier. "Report!" he barked, his voice betraying his anxiety. Peltier – Porthos' equal in rank but a newer commission – swallowed nervously.

"I'm sorry, Porthos. They're not here – but they were." Reluctantly, it seemed, he held out something that was instantly recognisable and achingly familiar: d'Artagnan's black body armour.

Porthos felt the breath leave his body in a rush as he breathed out, shakily, and took the worn leather from Peltier with hands which shook a little. He turned the garment over and over in his hands, breathing heavily, tracing a rent in one sleeve that had not been there before, and finding a patch stiff with dried blood on the collar and shoulder. He swallowed, knowing he was touching d'Artagnan's blood and wondering if this was the last trace he would ever find of his brother.

Peltier touched him on the sleeve and pointed to a dust plume in the distance. Porthos' stomach churned as he recognised Athos, approaching at a flat out gallop, his two escorts trailing well behind. He puffed out his cheeks in an explosive sigh and Peltier, grimacing sympathetically, withdrew, shouting to his men to regroup.

Athos pulled up in front of Porthos but didn't dismount. He could see instantly, in his lieutenant's body language, that the news was not good. He dropped his head for a moment, gathering himself, then dismounted far more sedately than Porthos had managed and asked quietly for his report.

* * *

Thirty minutes later the fort was virtually deserted again. Athos had thanked the patrol for their efforts and sent them back towards camp, mindful of the night fast approaching. Guérin and two others remained, waiting respectfully by the horses, as Athos and Porthos stood alone in the courtyard. Neither could bring themselves to leave this desolate place, with the wind rustling the dust at their feet and shadows racing up the slopes towards them as the sun sank behind the hills to the west.

They had searched everywhere again, hoping to find traces that the patrol might have missed, but found nothing useful. Between them they worked out that the camp had been abandoned several days earlier, going by the stench from a pile of waste food they'd found near a roofless building that had clearly been used for cooking.

Thinking about this, Porthos suddenly realised they couldn't have explored the whole camp. Knowing it was probably a waste of time, but desperate for any excuse to delay turning his back on this place - possibly the last link to d'Artagnan - he voiced his thought to Athos. "Latrines."

Athos turned weary eyes on him in query.

"Latrines – where are they? If they were here for a few days, with that many men..."

Nodding his understanding, Athos looked around the courtyard again. His gaze fell on the lower level just beyond the main perimeter, reached by a hole in the wall that might once have been a gateway. "Over there, maybe? There are no buildings there but it would be downwind." They had checked it from the upper wall but not gone down there, as there was nowhere a prisoner – or a body – could be hidden from view.

Porthos was already on the move. He strode across the courtyard and disappeared through the gap in the wall, scrambling down a slight slope then across the lower terrace, head swivelling from side to side as he searched. Veering towards the downhill side he stopped then stooped, peering into the undergrowth.

"Found 'em", he announced, straightening up. Athos quelled his heart which had momentarily raced at Porthos' words, realising immediately that Porthos meant the latrines, not the missing men. He joined Porthos and they stood, eyes straining down the hillside, looking for paths, buildings or any sign at all that it was worth lingering and searching further. Tsking impatiently, Porthos swung around and glared across the flat area towards the crumbling walls leading to the main courtyard.

"I can't believe we haven't found 'em," he muttered after a moment, glaring at Athos as if it were his fault. Athos didn't respond, feeling too crushed even to agree. Porthos rubbed a hand over his face and moved off slowly, walking the perimeter again and kicking furiously at loose stones as he went. Athos looked across the plains below, wondering where the Spaniards had moved on to and whether they would ever catch them up, and at the same time listening to Porthos as he stomped around the area, wondering how either of them would ever recover from this. He had tried to come to terms with losing d'Artagnan– but this raising of their hopes, finding his uniform, then nothing more – this was torture.

Porthos had reached the farthest point and was turning back when he suddenly saw Athos burst into life and race towards him. Stopping in confusion he looked around, think there must be someone behind him, but the area was empty. "What is it?" he called out as Athos neared him.

"Do that again!"

"Huh?"

"That last stone you kicked – do it again!"

Porthos wondered if the strain had finally become too much for Athos.

Athos pushed past him, impatiently. "Where were you when you kicked it? Where did it go?" He looked back, seeing Porthos still gaping at him. "The stone, Porthos! It disappeared! it didn't skitter along the ground like the others. There's a hole here somewhere!"

 _Sacre bleu_! Porthos finally caught on. He couldn't remember where he'd kicked the stone, hadn't been taking any notice, lost in his dark thoughts, but it didn't matter. If there was a hole here somewhere... They searched along the base of the wall separating the two levels, peering at the shadows and scuffing at the ground. Suddenly Porthos exclaimed: "There!" He raced towards a pool of darkness and flung himself to his knees, cursing as he felt around in the gloom. "There's a grid here, Athos, but I can't see anything..."

Athos whistled piercingly and Guérin's face appeared almost instantly, hanging over the wall above their heads. He must have been shadowing them from above. "We need light down here!" Guérin's face disappeared immediately, and they could hear him shouting instructions to the others. Within moments, it seemed, all three of the others had arrived on the lower level and were quickly fashioning a torch from a rag wrapped around a stout twig, soaked in alcohol. A few strikes of a flint and they had light. Handing it to Porthos, Guérin stood next to Athos, waiting while the big man held the flaming torch over his head, peering down the hole. Athos knew it was a long shot to expect any clues to come out of this desolate ground, and tried desperately to clamp down on the flicker of hope bubbling in his gut as he waited impatiently for Porthos to speak.

"Still can't see – Oh! Oh, Christ, Athos..."

Athos found he could barely speak. "Is it him?"

"No but I think... yes. Oh, God." Porthos crossed himself and handed the torch behind him without looking, his eyes searching out Athos'. "It's Patrice," he stated, flatly.

Athos drew in a shuddering breath, wanting to question Porthos but knowing, from his expression, that there was no point.

There was a long silence around the hole, then Porthos knelt again and wrapped his hands around the metal bars of the grid which covered the hole. Understanding immediately, Guérin passed the torch to Métier and took his place next to Porthos. Together they strained at the grid, which gave way reluctantly after a moment, sending stones skittering down the hole. Athos still hadn't stepped forward to look, but managed to stir himself to ask Laurent quietly for rope. The young Musketeer nodded and dashed back up to the horses, reappearing again in seconds, it seemed.

Sighing, wanting more than anything not to be doing this, Athos came to stand quietly beside where Porthos still knelt, and handed him the rope. Looking into the hole for the first time, Athos could make little out apart from a gleam of white about 15 feet down, and after a moment he realised, with shock, that he was looking at a skeletal foot.

Porthos looked up at his intake of breath, and pointed slightly to the right of the bones, where a second darker shape seemed to huddle in the shadows. Athos could think of nothing to say.

Porthos stirred himself to action, tying the rope around his shoulders and handing the loose end to Guérin, who organised himself and the others into a line to take Porthos' weight as he climbed down. Within moments it was done; Porthos was standing in the bottom of the hole which now looked crowded, being barely wider than the width of a man's arms. Moving slowly, Porthos crouched by the dark shape and Athos could hear him let out a sigh as he confirmed, quietly, that it was indeed Patrice.

Porthos didn't mess about. He simply picked Patrice up, placing his body carefully over one shoulder, then planted his feet against the side of the wall and called up to Guérin to pull. One hand on the rope to steady himself, one hand holding Patrice's legs, he walked his way up the wall easily and willing hands reached out at the top to relieve him of his burden.

They all stood looking down at the body, speechless. Patrice looked emaciated, his body covered in scabs and welts, and his fingers were bloody where, Athos guessed, he had scrabbled at the walls of his tomb.

Athos knew he should be doing something. Taking charge. Giving a lead to the four men who stood with him, all struggling to take in the reality of what had been done to Patrice. Five weeks! Five weeks ago he'd been complimenting the young recruit on his improved sword skills, thanking him for his part in their last big battle where he'd stood fast alongside Porthos, Guérin, Fouchard and three others, to repulse the Spanish advance that would have cut off the entire western third of their line. Patrice – with short dark hair, skinny, every inch an army man – had come to him only months before, requesting a transfer to the Musketeer force with whom he was spending more and more time. Patrice – who d'Artagnan had been teaching to ride ("You can't be a Musketeer and be scared of horses, city boy!"). Patrice throwing back his head and laughing when he finally managed a rising trot without falling off. Patrice, several years d'Artagnan's elder but following him around trying to copy his bandy-legged walk and his habit of cocking his thumbs in his belt when listening.

All the time images of Patrice alive and _living_ were flashing through his mind, Athos was also forcing himself to look at the withered body at his feet and feel for the young man. Yet drowning out everything else was one thought so intense he was surprised no one else could hear it. _Where was d'Artagnan_?

He only stirred when Guérin cleared his throat. Tearing his eyes away from Patrice's body, Athos saw Guérin swallow before asking what Athos wanted them to do now.

Athos didn't know. It was getting very dark and they should have been heading back well before now. They could load Patrice on one of the horses and leave almost immediately, but he couldn't bring himself to go. If Patrice was here – dead – surely d'Artagnan could not still be alive, but he could not leave without knowing. He could not live with this agonising uncertainty any longer, dammit!

A surge of anger propelled him into action. "Métier, Laurent, find something to wrap him and take him up to the horses. Guérin, Porthos, we'll search one last time. We are not leaving here until ... until it's too dark to search any longer. Move!"

No one pointed out that it was already almost too dark to ride safely, let alone search dark corners of a crumbling fortress. Guérin ran to fashion more torches as the others rummaged in saddlebags, Laurent donating his blanket to wrap Patrice. Porthos stood looking down the hole for a long time as Athos moved off to check the other side of the terrace again. When Athos looked back, he was still motionless, so Athos walked back to him. "What is it?"

"It's an oubliette, isn't it?"

Athos nodded. They both full well what it was: a type of dungeon only accessed by a hole in the ceiling. Some were so narrow that any prisoner dropped in could only stand, not lie down or even turn; others, like this one, were wide enough to prevent the prisoner from climbing out by bracing feet and back or hands on the wall. Always assuming you survived the drop. They were the ultimate punishment, where a prisoner was, quite literally, forgotten; left to die slowly and hopelessly. If they were right in thinking that the Musketeers had been moved from the first camp they'd found, they had barely been here five days, but it would only have taken three days without water, in these conditions, to die from dehydration.

His stomach churned and he didn't notice Porthos moving slowly off, feeling the ground with his toes as he walked the length of the wall separating the lower terrace from the upper courtyard. When he did look, Porthos had stopped some twenty paces away and was toeing the ground and stooping to peer at something. A pain like liquid fire shot through Athos' bowels as he knew instantly that Porthos had found another oubliette.

Athos forced his feet to move. If d'Artagnan was down there, he deserved both his brothers to be there to witness his death. He would think about it later. Ruthlessly, he separated the part of him that was disintegrating inside, and steeled himself for what he was about to see.

Porthos was kneeling now, peering into the dark shadows that had stopped them finding the second oubliette until he'd felt the grating under his toe. Neither spoke, both unwilling to begin to voice their thoughts, until Guérin arrived with new torches, saw them looking at the ground, and raced over, handing one torch to Porthos and holding the other high over his head as he too, craned to decipher the shadows.

Athos couldn't look. For all his steel, he simply could not take the last step needed to bring him within sight of the inside of the oubliette. He could only watch, hearing the blood pounding in his ears, as Porthos reached out trembling figures and wrapped his fists around the bars of the grille, gritting his teeth and yanking it free in one almighty effort. Gravel and stones pittered down into the murky depths and Athos tried not to listen to them land; tried not to picture what was down there.

Porthos lay full length now, head disappearing into the hole, holding the torch at arm's length below him, turning his head from the smoke and heat, trying to see past it into the gloom.

"Oh, _mon Dieu_!" he whispered, suddenly.

Athos' knees suddenly lost their strength and he almost fell forwards as the world rocked on its axis. He didn't notice when Guérin grabbed hold of his arm and virtually held him up; he couldn't take his eyes off Porthos. Dry-mouthed, he couldn't even ask what Porthos could see, but the next moment any last hope was snatched from him as he heard Porthos whisper the name he'd been dreading hearing. "d'Artagnan..."

Athos closed his eyes, unaware of Guérin's grip tightening on his arm. There was nothing except a roaring noise and d'Artagnan's name echoing in his head, and a sick feeling spreading from his stomach.

But Guérin was shaking him now, and calling him, and Porthos was erupting from the ground, bellowing something unintellible, his face urgent.

"Sir! Captain!"

"Guérin, get me the rope, NOW!"

Guérin let go of Athos and he staggered, staring at Porthos who was grabbing the rope and trying to fasten a loop with trembling fingers. Giving up, he handed one end to Guérin, wrapped the other around his shoulders, took a step into the darkness and simply dropped into the hole. Guérin lurched forwards as he took Porthos' weight and Athos grabbed him out of instinct, wrapping arms around his waist to anchor him. From the hole came scrabbling noises and then silence as the weight on the rope disappeared and Guérin stumbled backwards into Athos, both men nearly falling. The others had returned now, hearing the shouting, and were asking questions that Athos could not hear and Guérin could not answer.

Slowly, Athos lowered himself to one knee by the hole, picked up the forgotten torch, and held it over his head, looking for the first time into the oubliette.

Some 15 feet below him he could see Porthos kneeling beside a body – a corpse, dressed in dark clothes. Or clothes soaked in blood. The tiny flicker of hope he'd felt at Porthos' sudden urgency faded instantly as he took in the wizened features and tangle of broken limbs. His breath came out in a strangled sob which he couldn't disguise. What was Porthos _doing?_ For God's sake...

Porthos moved slightly and he could suddenly see another shape on the ground – this one gleaming pale in the shadows. Porthos' hand was touching the face but Athos couldn't see, couldn't see... It had to be him. Was Porthos talking to him? Yes, he could hear a soft whisper and he couldn't bear it, couldn't bear to hear the love in his voice, to witness the gentleness with which Porthos scooped up the body and cradled him carefully to his chest; he couldn't bear seeing Porthos raise his face to the watchers above and the tears wetting his cheeks. He thought his heart would break at the sight of his burly second-in-command in tears as he settled the body more securely, tucked a trailing hand across d'Artagnan's chest. In the shadows that hand seemed to move on its own, the fingers curling to grip onto Porthos' leathers, and Athos shook his head.

Then Guérin uttered the words that exploded in Athos' head. "Is he really still alive, Porthos?" and before Athos could think about why he would ask such a cruel question, Porthos was nodding, and half laughing, half sobbing, as he wrapped the end of the rope around his back and set his feet to the wall of the oubliette.

"Pull us up. Hurry!"

And Athos knew then that his beloved brother must still be breathing, or there would be no need to hurry.

Within seconds, it seemed, Porthos' head was rising out of the oubliette, and eager hands were catching hold of the Gascon's unresponsive body and pulling him free of his tomb. "Gently!" Porthos admonished as, forgotten, he scrambled out unassisted and half crawled to d'Artagnan's side again, his hands going straight to the chest, checking that he still breathed.

Athos couldn't quite believe what was happening. After so long, after finding no trace, then finding Patrice's body and knowing d'Artagnan must have met the same fate – how was he alive? For he _was_. In the gloom he could not see much detail, but he could see Porthos' hand on the naked chest rise slightly with every slow breath.

For the last few minutes Athos had felt frozen; sounds and sights had shimmered around him as if he were underwater. Now, suddenly, the waters parted and he erupted back into the here and now, issuing orders without thought, unable to take his eyes off the miraculous sight of his young sub-lieutenant still breathing.

"Guérin, fetch the horses. Laurent, water, quickly. Métier, a blanket. Hurry!"

He found he was still crouched by the hole, holding the torch. Rising stiffly he held it closer to where d'Artagnan lay, then flinched and whipped it away again. That quick glimpse would be enough to give him nightmares for weeks afterwards.

d'Artagnan was naked apart from his braes. His face was bruised and bloodied, his lower lip torn and his jaw swollen. His hair hung in lank clumps. His hands were covered in dried blood and the fingers mangled. His arms were criss-crossed with fine cuts, some fresh and deep, others older and crusted. Ripped flesh encircled his swollen wrists where he'd been chained. Dark patches of blood and bruises covered his chest and stomach. His ribs... they stood out, each bone clear under the tightly-stretched skin.

Athos couldn't take his eyes off d'Artagnan's chest as it rose and fell. Then his own breath caught as he saw the rhythm change, before he realised d'Artagnan was stirring slightly. Porthos, still kneeling beside him, bent his head to d'Artagnan's and listened, then looked around and reached out to Athos, catching him by the arm and pulling him close. "He's here, d'Artagnan, he's here," he kept repeating, looking at Athos meaningfully until his addled wits caught on and he too leaned in to reassure d'Artagnan.

A flurry of movement announced the arrival of Guérin with the horses, and the stillness of the tableau was broken as Laurent ran up with water which they dribbled into d'Artagnan's mouth. Within moments, it seemed, Porthos had carefully wrapped him in a blanket and carried the precious bundle to his horse where Guérin and Laurent took d'Artagnan cautiously, as if afraid to hurt him, so Porthos could mount. Athos stopped to put the grids back on both oubliettes, staring down at their silent occupants – one a skeleton, visible only as a gleam of white bone in the torchlight, the other still a recognisable man – then turned and mounted in one fluid motion. Checking that Porthos was sorted – a tense nod from him confirmed that he was ready to go – Athos set heels to Roger's sides, sending him straight in a fast canter through the gap and up onto the courtyard above where Métier waited, mounted, the long shape of Patrice's body tied behind his saddle.

Athos gave the signal for them all to set off, and waited, Roger fretting at the bit, until they had passed before taking up the rear. He rode with pistol in hand, conscious of the lateness of the hour and the leagues of Spanish, or ex-Spanish, territory they had to cover before d'Artagnan would be safe.

Porthos called a halt after half an hour and Athos rode up alongside, suddenly anxious again. "What's wrong?" he asked, as Porthos held two fingers to d'Artagnan's neck. Everyone held their breath, even the horses standing stock still as if aware of the importance of the moment, until Porthos nodded. "I thought he'd ... I thought ..." He stopped, unable to finish the thought.

Athos touched him lightly on the shoulder. "Can you go faster?"

Porthos nodded, resolute. "I think we should hurry. He's so still..."

They arrived in camp near to midnight, expecting to find the usual overnight perimeter guards and a few insomniacs around the camp fire, but instead finding the central walkway teeming with life. Men stood in groups, talking quietly, while others milled around the medical tent and horse-lines. As the search party approached, all eyes turned to them and there was a swell of voices as the men spotted the body strapped behind Métier, and the bundle in Porthos' arms.

"Who is it?" "What did you find?" called voices, quietly respectful.

Porthos rode straight for the medic tent but Athos drew rein and looked around at the men, realising they had been waiting on their return and perhaps debating the notion of riding out to meet them. Good job they hadn't, he thought, unable to fault their anxiety for another search party returning late.

"We found them both," he announced, simply. Men strained to hear in the sudden hush. "Patrice didn't make it, but d'Artagnan is still alive, just."

A moment of silence was followed by more questions, but Athos shook his head and dismounted, finding Guérin there immediately to take his reins. "Later."

The medic tent was ablaze with light when Athos entered. Clearly Etienne had been hard at work, for all manner of instruments, dressings and bandages were laid out ready, water bubbling on the small stove in one corner.

Porthos had already laid d'Artagnan on the first cot he'd come to and was now being ushered away by Julien, giving Etienne space to examine him.

" _Sacr_ _é_ _bleu_...!" was not what Athos wanted to hear as he stepped through the entrance. Etienne was already reaching for a bowl and cloth and instructing Julien tersely to drip water slowly into d'Artagnan's mouth. Glancing up he met Athos' eyes. "How long has he been like this?" he asked immediately.

"We found him in an oubliette and we think he'd been there five days. Patrice was dead when we found him – " Athos paused as the flap was pushed aside and two men carried Patrice's body in. Etienne nodded, waving at a cot on the far side and telling them he'd examine Patrice later. Then his eyes swivelled straight back to Athos and Porthos.

"Has he been conscious?"

Porthos nodded. "He recognised me, when we found him, but he hasn't really spoken."

Etienne frowned, check d'Artagnan's skin for fever. "He's hot. Julien?" His assistant was already on the move, fetching a glass bottle and spooning a couple of drops of some concoction into d'Artagnan's ruined mouth.

Etienne was ghosting his hands over d'Artagnan's body now, shaking his head. Gently catching a fold of skin on his stomach he let go and tutted as the skin remained tented. "He's severely dehydrated. Not surprising after five days – in fact he should be dead if that's how long he was without water. Athos, this is beyond my skills." He stated this matter-of-factly, but Athos thought the normally unflappable medic looked almost overwhelmed.

"What do you need?"

"I need – he needs – herbs, potions, to help his body recover. And knowledge! I do field wounds, not nursing. I don't know where to start."

Athos turned without speaking and went back outside, finding – with no sense of surprise – Fouchard hovering outside. "Find a herbswoman," Athos instructed, then added, probably unnecessarily – "Hurry."

Fouchard shot off and Guérin looked wildly after him, then back at Athos. "I'll go too?" he asked, uncertainly. Athos nodded, glad someone was thinking clearly. It was not wise to travel alone at night, even on their own side of the border.

He went back into the tent to find Etienne lifting d'Artagnan so Julien could strip him of his filthy braes.

"I'm going to wash him down. That will help with the fever, and the dehydration, as well as showing me what wounds we're dealing with," he explained to Athos, sounding more like himself now he had a plan. "His fever is not high but from the stink of him I'd be surprised if he doesn't have some infected wounds hiding under all this filth."

Athos found he couldn't stand any longer, and sank to the nearest cot. A moment later Porthos had joined him, and they sat, shoulder to shoulder, in mute attention, watching d'Artagnan's chest rise and fall; watching, and hoping.

* * *

* Described in Part One of Battlescars, "Luck Will Travel"

Cashiering: in the army, this is the ritual and usually public dismissal of an individual from a position of responsibility, for a breach of discipline.


	7. Chapter 7: We Sit and We Wait, Part II

_Thanks for all your reviews, which are like little messages of love when I log on to see if anyone is reading! You have no idea (unless you also post, in which case you will definitely know) how encouraging it is to get reviews. So if you're reading and haven't commented yet, don't be shy: a two word message even in your own language just means the world! Bit thanks to the guests who I can't reply to individually: Debbie, Sarah, Beeblegirl, Chris, the unnamed Guest who used about 30 "o"s in reviewing chapter one, and also mer_ _c_ _i beaucoup_ _à_ _Elys03!_

 _A shorter chapter here as we start to hear things from d'Artagnan's point of view. We're getting towards the heart of the darkness that he lived through so please don't read if you are upset by themes of abandonment and despair, for that is certainly what d'Artagnan starts to describe here and in the next chapter. Um... nor should you read if you are squeamish about bodily functions._

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: We Sit and We Wait and We Drown There Part II**

A soft sound brought Athos' attention back to the present day. With some surprise, he looked around the d'Artagnans' room, realising it had got quite dark while he'd been talking. Porthos had chipped in to begin with but for the last part of the story Athos had been speaking alone, lost in the memories of that time when they were searching for d'Artagnan, hardly daring to hope that he would still be alive.

Porthos had gone to sit by the fire, stoking it up and staring into the flames. Aramis sat quietly, listening intently but at the same time watching d'Artagnan closely. d'Artagnan was standing by the window, staring out at the darkened courtyard below. He'd left Constance sitting at the table on her own; she'd been watching Athos as he talked and the sound he'd heard had come from her.

She looked around the room, finding all eyes suddenly on her, and flushed. "Sorry – I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just... I was picturing you both, waiting to see if he would recover. I know it's stupid – he's right here now, I know he survived. But I could just see it – just see him." She looked over to the window where d'Artagnan stood, motionless, apparently oblivious to her words or the others in the room.

"Oh, what am I doing? I'm talking about you as if you're not here," Constance whispered, suddenly realising.

d'Artagnan stirred, turning to face the room for the first time in a while. His countenance, just for a moment, looked so bleak that Constance recoiled slightly, but he caught her movement and his expression softened and he moved swiftly to her side, reaching for her hand and catching her eyes with his.

"My fault, Constance. I was miles away." He turned to face Athos and Porthos, still holding Constance's hand as if for reassurance, and she wondered who was reassuring whom. "I hadn't really thought about what you both suffered when I was missing. I'm sorry, my friends. I should have been more aware of what you went through..." He got no further before Porthos had enveloped him in a hug so crushing that Constance heard the breath whoosh from his lungs.

"Put him down, Porthos, before you break him." Athos' voice was amused and Constance smiled as the tension was broken.

Porthos chuckled, patting d'Artagnan lightly on the back before releasing him. d'Artagnan drew in an exaggerated breath and glared at Porthos, but he too looked less uptight than he had in hours.

Only Aramis was silent, his feet still propped on the table (to Constance's secret irritation), arms folded, hat low over his eyes but - she was sure - watching d'Artagnan closely. Was he feeling left out because he hadn't been there to help find and rescue him? Or was there another reason for his silent watchfulness, she wondered?

d'Artagnan sat down next to Constance, running a hand over his face. She slipped her hand under his arm and drew him close, trying to convey her support and love by the warmth of her body against his. For a few moments the silence in the room was broken only by the crackle of the flames in the hearth, and the creaking of Porthos' leathers as he settled back down again. No one seemed in a hurry to speak, but Constance was bursting with questions, and when Athos stirred and leaned forward to replenish everyone's drinks, she couldn't contain herself, worried that one of them would decide they'd talked enough, and she would be left with all her questions rattling around her head and a husband who still seemed completely disinclined to open up.

"So," she began hesitantly, stopping as all eyes seemed to swivel towards her – except d'Artagnan who gone back to twisting and rubbing his fingers endlessly. She hesitated, but Aramis gave her a smile of encouragement so she cleared her throat and tried again. "So there are some things I don't understand." Many, many things. She didn't really know where to start, except that she knew she needed to hear about it from him. It was almost as if she couldn't believe it had happened to him unless he had told her himself. And she still didn't know what had happened, exactly. What had they done to him? How did he end up in the oubliette?

But she was worried about pushing him into silence again. So she asked what she hoped would be a straightforward question. "How did you survive five days in the oubliette, when Patrice did not?"

When he didn't answer straight away she tried again, her voice trembling a little but her expression determined. She had to know, had to understand. "d'Artagnan, please, if you can, talk to me. Did this all surface yesterday, when you spoke to Borel, because you were left without food and water, like the people in the siege of Salas?"

Both were reasonable questions. They were also questions d'Artagnan had been dreading. He'd put everything associated with his capture behind him, two years ago. When he returned at the end of the war he was a different person, but still, he hoped, recognisable enough as the man Constance had married to enable them to resume their relationship. He'd lost his naivety, that was certain, but somehow he'd regained his moral compass and, against the odds, his faith in humanity; and he'd been sure he could be the d'Artagnan she expected him to be.

Borel had turned all that on its head. d'Artagnan had believed in the man, had faith in his goodness if given a chance: and it had ended in disaster. It was not talk of the siege itself but what it represented – utter cruelty, inhumanity, ruthlessness – that had brought his own memories flooding back and kept him from sleep last night. But he had no idea how to begin to explain any of it. And he desperately didn't want to have to.

For a moment he wondered what they would do if he simply rose and said he'd had enough for one day. If he left, would someone follow? Would Constance feel hurt? His friends would surely help her... The lure of the cool evening air was pulling at him and he suddenly craved solitude, yearning to be away from the questions and the pain of talking and remembering. He found himself looking at the door and planning how many steps it would take to reach it. He would tell them that he would return; they would understand...

A hand on his shoulder made him jump and he subsided into his chair, only then realising that he must have started to rise. Aramis patted him once then released him, but the intensity of his gaze was mesmerizing. He tried to look away but Aramis nudged him gently. "You can do this, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan dragged his eyes back to his fingers and swallowed, feeling sick.

"'e doesn't 'ave to talk, Aramis. It's 'ard for 'im. You weren't there, remember?" Porthos sounded edgy, and Aramis flinched slightly but met Porthos' gaze.

"I've been through it myself, remember?" he said lightly, but in the echo of Porthos' phrasing his challenge was clear.

"Not the same, Aramis an' you know it."

Constance drew a sharp breath. Porthos was really pushing Aramis. To try to belittle what he'd suffered in Savoy – for it was clear that was Porthos' meaning – was plain wrong, as well as hurtful. "It's not a competition, boys!" she reprimanded them, before either could say something they would regret.

Porthos crossed his arms over his chest and puffed out his cheeks, glancing from Athos to d'Artagnan then back to Constance but pointedly ignoring Aramis.

Athos was watching d'Artagnan closely, seeing the reluctance written clear on his face and feeling helpless, as he remembered feeling so often after rescuing d'Artagnan from captivity.

Then Aramis spoke again, delicately. "My intention was not to compare our experiences, for you are right, Porthos, the circumstances were completely different." Constance silently complimented him on his skilful approach; the words "you are right" immediately deflated Porthos, even if they only applied to a tiny portion of what had been unspoken between them.

Aramis hadn't finished. "What we do have in common, I believe, is the effect those experiences has had on us." He looked at d'Artagnan again, as if waiting for a signal before continuing. d'Artagnan seemed lost in his own thoughts, but then Constance felt him draw in a deep breath and let it out, slowly, his shoulders dropping from their defensive hunch.

It seemed to be what Aramis was waiting for, because he immediately carried on. "You all know how hard it has been at times for me, when something triggers a memory. To begin with I would lose days, sometimes, lost in ... despair. At first all that rescued me was you two – and later you, d'Artagnan. Knowing that you understood was – _liberating_. It meant I did not have to explain myself, or justify how I was behaving. It was enough for you just to drink with me, or sit with me. You stayed with me more times than I can count, and each time I found my way back with your help."

He was glancing between them all, including all of them, but his eyes stayed longest on Porthos, willing him to understand what he was trying to say. He paused, then turned to d'Artagnan. "My friend, you know why I'm reminding you of this. You know you cannot fight this melancholy alone, and Constance is right; she needs to understand – everyone does, or we cannot help you."

There was another silence in the room, broken as Porthos sighed gustily then nodded. "'e's right, young 'un. Maybe it is time you talked to us. Properly."

d'Artagnan stirred, finally, and caught Constance's hand, bringing it to his lips in a fleeting kiss. "My love, are you sure you want to –"

"Yes," she interrupted him, firmly.

He gave a wry smile, then rose, walking around the table towards the window, squeezing Porthos' shoulder as he passed. Once at the window he crossed his arms, propped a shoulder against the wall with his back to the room, took a moment, and then, finally, began to talk.

"I survived five days... I didn't know how long it was, I'd lost all sense of time by then. But I think I survived... because I was prepared to do things that Patrice wouldn't, or couldn't." Constance was aware of her heart thudding. What things did he mean? Did she really want to know?

d'Artagnan's voice was low but matter of fact as he began to describe the days immediately leading up to his rescue.

"We walked there from the first camp one afternoon; they were in a hurry and on horseback, and they didn't have much patience."

 _Sun beating down on the red hills as they left the first camp. Hands roped in front of them, each tied to the pommel of a saddle. Jeers and catcalls. Weaving from exhaustion, not to avoid the stones that cut their bare feet. Trying to call to Patrice, to encourage him or just to hear a word of his own language, but his mouth was too dry, his tongue too big. Neither of them sweating much, anymore: they were too dehydrated. If they fell, the ropes tightened and the horses sped up, so they were dragged along the red-dusted path, stones tearing at their skin._

"We travelled through the night." _The endless night, leaden feet, legs all over the place, not obeying him. He couldn't remember by then how it felt to stride out or just stroll. Had he ever walked without thinking about each step? Every moment sure he couldn't keep going any longer, but always telling himself to take one more step, just one more, or they might as well shoot him now_.

"We reached – that place, the hillfort – the next morning."

Four leagues between the two camps, Porthos remembered. At least twelve hours walking at a normal pace, but they'd set off in the full afternoon sun, so it must have taken them more like fifteen. Tough for any soldier, let alone barefoot, with no water.

"They tied us in the courtyard. In truth, I don't remember much about that day. Except that Patrice collapsed, eventually, from the heat, and I had to beg for water."

 _They'd made him beg for everything. His mind shied away from the memory of the first time, when they'd encircled him, laughing and pointing, first prodding him with their boots, then kicking him when he refused to beg. He'd curled up as much as his chained wrists allowed, trying to protect his head and stomach as the kicks rained down on his back and legs. Eventually a voice had barked a sharp command and it had stopped, instantly. He couldn't even remember now what he'd asked for – water, no doubt – but he remembered that the next time he'd asked, and they'd told him to beg, he had done it straight away, head held high, eyes staring steadfastly between the legs surrounding him, careful not to look at anyone so he could pretend he was asking Serge for another jug of water instead of begging on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, repeating the Spanish words they made him recite amidst their laughter._

"Two days later their Captain, Ortega, arrived back with a couple of riders, and they all packed up in a panic."

One of their own patrol had come across a group of Spanish riders, Porthos remembered. They'd given chase, losing sight of them in the olive groves around the foothills, but a couple of days later, after they'd found LeVente's body in the first camp, Athos had remembered the report of the encounter nearby. It had been enough to send teams searching in that direction and, ultimately, to finding the second hillfort.

"Ortega gave the command to move out. I wasn't sure if they were going to take us with them again. Didn't think either of us could walk far by then. But Bautista ... waited until the last minute, then pointed at us. And Ortega ... he just shrugged."

d'Artagnan's words had been getting slower, as if he was searching for the right words in a foreign language, and now he just stopped. Constance couldn't see his face but she heard him swallow, and closed her eyes for a second, hearing the bleakness in his voice. To have one's fate decided, not by logic or passion, but with a shrug? She couldn't comprehend how that must have felt to the two Frenchman as the Spanish troops started to leave. Lost in a sense of outrage she almost jumped when he started to speak again.

"Bautista – he was the man responsible for most ... most of our..." He faltered again and Constance held her breath, longing to go to him but sensing that he would reject her comfort right now; he needed to get through this on his own.

He tried again. "Bautista was our ... tormentor." He stopped, as if checking the description was sufficient. Seemingly satisfied, he hurried on. "He told Ortega he would kill us and catch the others up. But he didn't kill us. I don't know why..."

His eyes distant, he paused, his breathing fast and shallow, before admitting quietly: "No, I do. It was to make us suffer a bit longer. Killing us would have been too quick. Too easy a death."

His matter-of-fact tone was at odds with his words, which quite simply shocked Constance to the core.

When Athos talked about where they'd found d'Artagnan she'd assumed it had been a mistake. That perhaps the Spanish had literally forgotten them when they fled in a hurry. She had not contemplated that it might have been one last, deliberate, act of cruelty.

"He waited until everyone had moved off, then he came and untied Patrice."

 _Patrice was sobbing, hands shaking as he babbled incoherently, mixing French and Spanish, pleading. d'Artagnan shouted at him to be strong, not to be afraid, that he was here and would not leave him... but Patrice was beyond reason now and d'Artagnan could still hear him as he was dragged across the courtyard and through a gap in the crumbling wall. A moment later he heard a scream and then a terrible silence, and the blood rushed to his head as he knew that Bautista would be coming back for him..._

"I heard Patrice fall." A pause. "We managed to talk, later, and he told me he broke his leg when he landed, and passed out." Another pause. "I was lucky; the companion in my cell had not been there as long as Patrice's, and was still soft enough to break my fall."

The body in the dark pit where they'd found d'Artagnan had stunk, Porthos remembered. God alone knew who had put him there or even what nationality he had been. Perhaps a Spanish deserter; he hadn't had the look of a Frenchman, but to his shame he had paid the body little attention other than to curse that he could not get close to d'Artagnan without kneeling on putrid flesh.

For the first time since beginning his account, d'Artagnan turned to face the room, his eyes finding Constance's immediately, searching her face for something. Reassurance, she decided, as he stumbled over the next words.

"Bautista was ... He enjoyed being in control. " He swallowed, shutting his eyes for a second, then forged on. "He... Oh God. I can't tell you everything, I ... but he... He pissed on me." His breathing had quickened and Porthos took a step forward as if to speak, or stop him, but Athos shook his head fractionally and Porthos stopped.

d'Artagnan carried on after a moment, his voice a little stronger now, as if drawing strength from having got this far. "He stood looking down the hole, laughing and pissing on me. And all I could think was that he had won; he'd finally got me where I couldn't fight back, couldn't resist... and I ... " His hands were twisting rapidly again, clawing at his fingers, pulling the skin tight as if trying to rip off his own flesh. "I couldn't move. I was winded from the fall, and I couldn't seem to move... He was aiming at my face, knowing I couldn't move away, so I ... did the only thing I could think of." He hesitated, again seeking out Constance's eyes. Seeing what he needed from her, he drew in a shaky breath and finally got the words out. "I drank it."

There was a shocked silence. A log shifted in the hearth and an ember rolled out but no one took any notice. Constance couldn't take her eyes off this man she loved so much, who'd been so degraded that the only way he had left to rebel was to drink the bodily fluid of the man tormenting him. She couldn't get her head around it, but he was talking again and she forced herself to concentrate. She couldn't miss a word: she knew, with utter certainty, that he was unlikely ever to speak of this again.

"I didn't think it through at the time – it was just a way of showing him that ... I was not beaten. It was only afterwards that I remembered you telling me, Aramis, that you can drink a small amount of urine without harm, if you need water. So when I had to relieve myself, the next morning, I caught as much as I could in my hands and drank that, too."

Porthos made a small sound and shook his head, muttering to himself. d'Artagnan watched him, carefully, searching his face for an expression of distaste, or revulsion, but all his saw was compassion mixed with fury, and he was not so far gone that he didn't know where each emotion was directed. So he carried on.

"Bautista left after that." It hadn't been straight away, actually. He'd stopped long enough to spit on d'Artagnan, taunting him to swallow that, too, and to tell him how slowly death would come for him, how his tongue would swell and his eyesight go but he'd still be able to hear the rats eating his flesh... d'Artagnan shook himself, literally, pushing the words back where they belonged, to the very back of his memory where, he fervently wished, they would stay.

A touch on his arm brought him back to himself and he looked up into Athos' eyes, calm grey in this light. He offered d'Artagnan a goblet, keeping hold of it as d'Artagnan wrapped his fingers around it until his hand had stopped shaking long enough to hold it without spilling. Nodding his thanks, d'Artagnan tried to control his trembling fingers, resolving to finish this god-awful conversation as quickly as possible.

"That's how I survived. That was the only difference between us, except..." He bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood. "The first night I... don't remember much. I was calling to Patrice most of the day, trying to get him to talk to me but he was quiet, most of the time. I knew he could hear me – I could hear him when he cried in pain – but he wouldn't answer me." His face was bleak again, remembering that feeling of helplessness, and Constance shivered, knowing there was more to come in this nightmare d'Artagnan was sharing with them.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I'm sorry, in a way, to be posting this now: it feels very bleak at a time when there is so much real-life trauma and drama going on with floods and earthquakes and the threat from North Korea. But maybe it helps to divert our minds to a safe fictional world, one with a band of brothers to help you through the dark days. Or maybe I should try comedy next time!_

 _Drinking urine, by the way, is a recognised but last-ditch survival mechanism. Also, apparently, a new health trend based on an ancient health practice. Urotherapy. Who knew?_


	8. Chapter 8: We Sit and We Wait, Part III

_A heartfelt thank you for reviewing: I had a little panic after posting that last chapter and nearly took it down later that evening, worried that it might offend people, that it was a weaker chapter and might not make sense: I know what else 'happened' but d'Artagnan, bless him, is telling it all backwards so I wasn't sure I was bringing you all along with it. FierGascon, you saved me from taking it down by your quick "thumbs up", so a big thanks to you, and to Issai for your thoughtful reassurance, and Chris, Debbie, Beeblegirl, Helensg, Sarah, Aingealsuh and Greenlips for your encouragement, and at Elys03: ne t'inquiet pas! Soit patient, cela suivra - mais d'abord..._

 _We will hear about his treatment by the Spanish, I promise, but first we learn more about the oubliette, and the state d'Artagnan was in after they found him. Warning: this one is bleak and contains themes of despair and suicidal thoughts. And rats. Please don't read if any of this is a trigger for you._

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: We Sit and We Wait and We Drown There III**

 _Spanish hill fort, late summer 1634_

It was hot during the day, hot and airless and it stank down there, air thick with fumes from the body he lay next to and from the urine soaking his hands. Aramis had told him urine was good for cleaning cuts so he hoped it wouldn't hurt; might even help him survive a little longer.

Then he began to wonder if he still wanted to survive. Maybe he would be better just dying quickly.

As soon as he'd heard the last sounds dying away from the courtyard above his head, and was sure that Bautista would not return, he scrabbled around the floor of the dungeon. He found the bones of a previous inmate under the body of the man whose rotting flesh was pooling on the floor of the cell. He managed to free a couple of the longer bones and tried to dig holes in the soil separating the stones, thinking he could climb up if he could make footholds. But it was hopeless; the stones fitted snugly together and the bones splintered under his efforts. He was weak and exhausted after weeks of ill-treatment and starvation, and eventually he had to accept that he was not going to climb out of here. There was no way out.

He tried not to look at the body of the man who had been here before him. Tried not to think about what he had felt as he lay here. Did he beg for someone to come and rescue him, to take pity on him? Had he prayed? Had he thought of a wife, or a child, or his mother? Did he know he was dying?

d'Artagnan had thought about dying more frequently than most men twice his age do, but even so he had been sure it would be in battle. He was confident that he would die in that moment between two men when no more than a centimetre, or a millisecond's reflex, separates them. It would be quick, and meaningful, and he knew he would accept it because he had prepared for it, mentally, ever since his first fight with Athos in the courtyard of the garrison.

Not once had he imagined he would die like this, in a hole in the ground, in a foreign land, forgotten and nameless, stinking of urine and staring at his own future as his unknown companion mouldered slowly in front of his eyes.

Did it hurt, to die slowly?

* * *

It got cold at night, and he shivered continuously. His eyes closed a few times but he always snapped awake again within seconds. He kept calling to Patrice, and when his voice went hoarse, he tried humming, to give himself courage and hoping the sound would still travel through the stone walls separating them and give Patrice comfort. He kept telling him not to give up, that Athos and Porthos wouldn't give up, that they would be found: they only had to stay alive.

It was not until the second day that he heard Patrice's voice. He nearly cried with relief at knowing the other man was still alive, that he hadn't been left alone here, but then Patrice's words sank in. He was telling d'Artagnan to shut up, to leave him alone to die in peace. He'd given up.

d'Artagnan was so shocked that he had kept quiet for a long while, but eventually he couldn't stand the feeling of being alone and started talking again. This time he didn't exhort Patrice to stay hopeful. He just told him, over and over, that he was here, that he wouldn't leave Patrice alone. That he was a hero, and people would know his name. Occasionally he wondered who he was trying to reassure – Patrice or himself.

Eventually his throat was so dry that it hurt to whisper let alone shout, and he had to stop. After a long silence he heard two words, so quiet he wondered if he'd imagined them. "Thank you." That was the last thing he heard Patrice say.

The second night he'd dozed, finally, weeks of fitful sleep catching up with him. He'd almost got used to the smell in there, though it still hit his nostrils if he caught the other man's body with an elbow or foot, shifting position. It was while he was dozing that he dreamt Vadim was cutting off his fingers one by one in the cellar he used as a meeting place. Vadim let out a high-pitched scream of laughter as he tore off the last finger – and he woke to find two rats squealing as they fought over his fingers, which were bloody and torn where they'd been nibbled by the rodents while he slept.

He lashed out and caught one of them, hurling it against the wall and killing it. He lay looking at it for ages, at the blood leaking from its body. Then he crawled a few inches closer, collected the body and ate it.

He only managed a few tiny mouthfuls of the flesh, first tearing the fur off with his teeth. He steered clear of the head, tail, and guts, and there wasn't much left, to be honest, but it was moist, and he managed to swallow a little without being sick. He couldn't afford to be sick; he couldn't spare the fluid. He'd cried, a little, when he woke and saw his fingers, but had stopped himself quickly for the same reason, because he couldn't afford to waste moisture in tears. It was after that that he decided to try to eat some of the rat. He didn't let himself think about what he was doing; he stared at the stone walls and the shadows, and chewed mechanically, and swallowed, and thought fiercely about getting out of here and finding Bautista and ripping his body to shreds...

He'd spent the rest of the night sitting upright, arms wrapped around his knees, feet tucked as close as possible to his body, staring into the shadows ready to lash out at the rats if they came close.

He tried calling Patrice again but there was nothing: no crying, no faint sounds, no sense that Patrice was still alive. He couldn't remember how long they'd been here. Was this the third day? How long before he couldn't remember, couldn't think anymore? He stared at the splintered bones, and picked one up, feeling the sharp point and digging it into his wrist without conscious thought. He watched the point pierce his skin and a small drop of blood form, but only a tiny prick of pain. It wouldn't hurt, would it, to pierce a vein and let his blood flow? It would be better than lying in his own filth, waiting for death to steal his body. He could make himself ready, and do it at a time of his choosing – his last act of defiance.

Would he wait until night? No. No! He would not have his last sight of this world be the rats crowding around his blood, eyes gleaming as they fought over the treat. No, he would do it by day. He could look up at the tiny eye of blue sky above his head. Maybe watch a cloud. Or even a bird. He'd like to see something alive up there, as he died. The bars of the grid got in the way but he tipped his head back and stared up, waiting. There were no clouds. A bird then, he would wait for a bird. What would it be? It was too much to expect something magnificent, like a buzzard or an eagle. It would probably be a sparrow, knowing his luck. He started to laugh at himself: too proud to die watching a sparrow! Sparrows were great. Feisty little things, rich brown feathers when you looked properly. They'd lived in the hedges and eaves of the farm buildings and he'd always cheered up when he heard them arguing noisily over perches in the mornings on his way to milk their cow...

It was dark! He hadn't noticed it getting dark, dammit! Now he'd have to wait until dawn before he could die. Unless his body gave up on him before then and he died in the night anyway. He didn't want to die in the dark. He didn't want to die but he was just so tired, and it hurt to go on hoping...

He was rambling, he knew. Thoughts tumbling across his mind, like kids chasing one another. They'd played chase in the market place, risking a thrashing as they leapt over baskets of chickens and trays of fruit, under stalls, through legs, shrieking with the excitement of the pursuit. He'd been quick, and small then, for his age, and he'd often won. But just as often he'd been caught by the collar and belted across the ears by an irate stall holder. His friends would giggle and watch as he, red-faced, would be put to work picking up fallen fruit and restacking crates. His father would come looking for him and frown, disappointed, full of apologies for the stall-holders, and drag him home, silent in his disapproval. His mother would look cross, but she would wink at him when his father's back was turned, and he would smile gratefully and resolve to behave better next time. But next market day there would be a new challenge, like walking the crumbling town walls, jumping across the gaps, seeing who could get furthest without falling (he'd won that challenge as well, but had fallen when showing off by celebrating on the wall, and cut his elbow so badly that he'd been taken home early that time, too). He'd never learn, his father said, and his mother winked again, and the world righted itself again.

 _Bon sang_! His toes were throbbing and something was tugging at his arm, and the bloody rats were crawling over him, squealing and sinking their teeth into his flesh. He flailed his arms and legs around, driving them back to the shadows, but he knew they were still there, waiting. How long would they wait before creeping close again? Would he feel them, next time? He'd had a plan, he was sure, but he couldn't remember what it was. Something about bones. He was holding a bone, why was that? He flung it away, suddenly disgusted, and hoped death would come quickly.

* * *

"Do you remember when we found you?" The voice was soft, and didn't belong in that dark, dark place in his mind. "d'Artagnan? Do you remember?"

He floundered, for a moment, unable to think where he was. That voice didn't belong there, but he remembered he'd heard them talking and thought they'd come to make him feel less alone as he died. They'd gone, for a bit, and he wanted to cry but didn't have the energy. Then he'd heard them again, and Porthos had called his name, and then he'd been _there_ , and he'd been warm, and he'd held him, and whispered to him that he was safe now. He remembered thinking this was better than a sparrow, to keep him company as he died, but then he'd heard Athos' voice too, only he wasn't there, and he wanted to see him, desperately. So he'd waited, and breathed (Porthos kept telling him to breathe, he remembered that, too) and suddenly Athos was there, touching his face, and other hands were wrapping him in something soft, and lifting him, and he'd wondered if he really was safe, and thought how sad it would be to die now, and decided to wait just a little longer, just in case it was real and he really was to be allowed to live.

"d'Artagnan?" He looked up, surprised to find he was eye to eye with Athos rather than looking up at him from the ground in the courtyard. Athos' hands were on his shoulders, holding him, firmly, and d'Artagnan blinked, realising slowly that he'd lost track of time, and even of himself. He had been back there, for a while. Had he talked about it? The memories had crowded back, so vividly that he was _there_ again, for a moment. Athos had asked him a question though, hadn't he? Yes... "Yes, I remember when you found me." He remembered to breathe, but everything felt disjointed.

Athos took his hands from d'Artagnan's shoulders and he felt bereaved, missing the warmth and the contact. Then one hand returned, gripping his shoulder firmly, almost holding him up, while the other wrapped d'Artagnan's fingers around a wine goblet. "Drink," he ordered, firmly.

d'Artagnan drank, feeling the alcohol rush to his head. Had he drunk at all this evening? He couldn't remember. He felt drained, completely, and Athos seemed to understand this, pushing him gently into a chair, taking the goblet from his hand and refilling it.

"He ought to eat something," he heard Constance say quietly in the background, and realised he was completely out of it; people were talking over him and he couldn't connect. Then Aramis was there, hand on his knee, talking quietly, and d'Artagnan listened, remembering that voice and the words, like a litany, that had kept him grounded before.

Slowly he came back to the room. Porthos was talking to Constance quietly by the door, and then she slipped out. He went to rise, thinking to stop her, or go with her – was she alright? – but Aramis stopped him. "She's fine. She's gone to get food; we're all hungry." d'Artagnan nodded, wishing he could remember how much he'd said.

"Did I explain everything?" he asked Aramis, seeing his eyebrows rise fractionally as the medic realised just how far d'Artagnan had slipped from the present whilst he'd been talking.

"You told us about the oubliette, and expecting to die; about the piss and the rats. That's..." He'd been going to say "that's all", d'Artagnan knew, but had stopped himself. It was more than enough, for now.

Constance was back in the room already and explaining that she'd found Brujon sitting at the bottom of their stairs, bless him, waiting to see if they needed anything. She'd sent him to buy soup at The Wren, it being long past time for the evening meal in the garrison kitchen. She came straight to him, as if sensing his longing and confusion, and knelt next to him to wrap her arms around his waist, not saying anything, just holding him. He closed his eyes, burying his nose in her hair, drinking in the scent of lemons and willing it to drive away the stink that still sat heavy in his memory.

When he opened them again, he found Aramis watching him carefully, and sighed. He knew damned well what Aramis was thinking, and his stomach contracted as dread flooded through him again. He'd only told a small part of it, and it had nearly sent him to his knees as well as driving Constance close to tears. No, actually to tears, he amended silently, as she sniffed, sitting back on her heels and rummaging for a handkerchief to wipe her face.

"I always wondered how you'd survived that long." Porthos' voice suddenly broke the silence. "Can't believe what you had to go through in there, little brother." His voice was gentle and accepting, and d'Artagnan felt unexpected tears spring to his eyes at the knowledge that Porthos understood; he _knew_ , and did not judge. The tears, though, came from a fear that he would not understand the rest of it. He looked back at Aramis, knowing what he would see. Sure enough, Aramis was gazing at him intently, silently telling him to stay strong and keep talking. d'Artagnan shook his head: he couldn't ... he just couldn't.

Watching them both, Athos could see there was more to come, but he questioned the wisdom of forcing d'Artagnan to talk more now. Aramis didn't know how bad things had got with d'Artagnan after they rescued him. Maybe if he did – and Constance had to know too. Was now the right time? No, the better question was "would there be a better time?"

He cleared his throat. "d'Artagnan, have you had enough?"

Aramis stirred as if to protest, and Athos shot him a stern look that said plainly 'wait'. d'Artagnan glanced around at them all. The honest answer was yes – in fact, the thought of carrying on made him long to leave – but... he didn't know. And said so.

Constance suddenly blurted out a question. "Porthos, how come you didn't know what he'd been through? Didn't you talk, when you got him back to camp?"

Porthos looked at Athos, then d'Artagnan, before answering. "We... well, it was a while before he was properly conscious again, and then there was a big battle and we had a lot of injuries and d'Artagnan... well, he ..." He looked again at d'Artagnan, waiting for something.

The Gascon sighed, then said quietly: "I wasn't talking, was I?" This drew ironic laughs from both Athos and Porthos.

"That is one way of putting it," Porthos said, wryly.

* * *

He'd woken – properly – to chaos. The medic tent was full of men running, shouting instructions, calling for help, crying in pain. It was hellish, there was blood everywhere, and he couldn't be there. He couldn't remember where else he might go but he couldn't be here with the smell of blood and raw meat and the stink of fear.

"We'd been with 'im as much as possible but 'e wasn't really conscious much for the first couple of days. It was – what, day four?" Porthos looked at Athos, who nodded. "We'd joined with another regiment and there was a big push to drive the Spanish back. We'd lost some men, had a lot of injuries. I took someone to the medics and went to check on d'Artagnan, and found someone else in 'is cot. Etienne said he'd got up when the injured started arrivin', and said to use 'is bed for someone who needed it, and just walked out. I was furious with Etienne for lettin' 'im go but 'e was trying to dig a musket ball out of someone's chest and 'e just looked at me, and I shut up. It was no one's fault. But we couldn't find 'im for several hours. Turned the camp upside down, looked in all the tents – we'd moved several times since 'e was taken, so I thought he'd got lost trying to find 'is tent. But there was no trace an' we were all gettin' really scared, to be honest."

"Where did you find him?"

"Fouchard came runnin' to say one of the guards 'ad seen 'im walkin' out of camp towards the lake. Beautiful lake it was, wasn't it?"

d'Artagnan nodded. He remembered it very clearly – better than anything else in that camp. He remembered needing to get away from the chaos in the medics tent; finding himself outside, sitting on a crate, with weary soldiers streaming past on their way back from the battle. He'd sat for a while with his face turned up to the sun, but after a bit he'd become aware of the smell of burnt flesh, and excrement, and vomit, coming from the tent.

"Gawd, yes, I'd forgotten the smells... That was a bad one, wasn't it?" Porthos looked at Athos, whose eyes looked darker now, thought Constance.

"We'd run into a wall of Spanish, trying to take some cannon on the bluffs overlooking the battlefield. They pushed us back then turned the cannon on us. We lost a lot of men that day." Athos' tone was conversational but the words themselves conveyed the bleakness of that day in their minds.

d'Artagnan shivered, suddenly. "I'm glad I missed that one."

"You were much better off floatin' in that lake!" Porthos teased him, only half joking.

"Floating?" Constance didn't like the sound of that.

"Yeah, when I got there..." He'd grabbed the nearest horse and thundered down the path Fouchard indicated, yelling at him to get Athos. He hoped he was overreacting but given that d'Artagnan had been barely conscious the night before, he couldn't understand why – or even how - he'd gone so far from camp unless something was wrong. He'd got to the top of the slope leading down to the lake and scanned the area frantically, calling d'Artagnan's name and hoping no Spaniards had strayed this far from the battlefield. "An' then I saw him in the middle of the lake, jus' floatin'. Thought he was dead, if I'm honest."

d'Artagnan looked up at that and smiled, apologetically. "I just... I wanted... it was so – _chaotic –_ in the camp. Noisy. And I stank of sweat. I was just going to wash. But I could still hear the camp. It was a peaceful lake – you'd have loved it, Constance. Low hills, soil that looked pink in the sunset. I just didn't want to hear anything but the wind and the water... I remember wading in and the water was so cool, so clean, that I just lay down in it and floated. When my ears were under water it was so peaceful. Couldn't hear anything, or smell anything but water. It was – bliss."

"Till I turned up." Porthos grinned. "Wasn't very peaceful then, was it?"

d'Artagnan smiled back. "You can't blame me! I couldn't hear anything, remember? One minute I'm floating, looking up at the sky," – _looking for sparrows, actually, and finding a buzzard spiralling lazily over his head, unable to take his eyes off it, feeling a sense of peace for the first time in weeks –_ "next thing someone grabs me by the collar and starts hauling me out ... what did you expect?"

Porthos laughed, ruefully. "Didn't expect such a good punch, that's for sure. Thought you were dead."

"So you said. Several times." He'd caught Porthos full on the mouth. Porthos had dropped him and reared back in shock, disappearing momentarily under water. d'Artagnan had lunged to grab him, and they'd helped each other out of the water and flopped onto the bank above the reeds, both coughing. Porthos had yelled at him, alternately cupping a hand over his mouth where his lip was split, then gesticulating wildly to punctuate his words. "Don't **do** that to me! We couldn't find you – what are you **playing** at? You shouldn't be out of bed let alone bloody swimmin' and _I thought you'd drowned_!" d'Artagnan had been unable to speak, sitting hugging his arms around his body for warmth as the rant washed over him.

Porthos had eventually wound down enough to notice how blue d'Artagnan looked. He promptly hauled the young Musketeer in for a hug, realising his body was shuddering with tremors from the cold. He'd rubbed him vigorously before remembering the cuts and bruises still healing under the thin shirt, tutted, and hustled him onto his horse, running alongside in his haste to get d'Artagnan back to camp.

In their tent, he'd sat d'Artagnan on the cot and stripped him down, digging in his saddlebag for spare clothing and re-dressing the compliant Gascon. Only then did he notice that d'Artagnan was simply looking around the tent as if he'd never seen it before. And only then did he realise that d'Artagnan still hadn't spoken a word. Sitting back on his heels, Porthos had rubbed a hand over his face to calm himself after the scare d'Artagnan had given him, and trying to think what to say. It felt wrong to feel so clueless around the lad. He'd never had to pick his words before, but the trembling figure on the bed reminded him of a deer startled in a forest clearing, nostrils twitching, muscles bunched ready to leap as soon as he could work out which way to run. d'Artagnan felt like a stranger to him and he didn't know how to reach him.

"So did you never talk about it to them? Even when you were better?" Constance was still struggling to understand. She'd seen for herself how closed d'Artagnan seemed since he'd returned, but surely he hadn't kept all this bottled up for two whole years?

d'Artagnan visibly floundered as he looked for words to explain. After a moment watching him, Athos straightened from where he'd been leaning against the wall, and came back to the table. "I think there's a lot d'Artagnan's never been able to talk about, Constance. You have to understand, this happened in a chaotic period of the war. We were pushing the Spanish back daily, making progress for the first time in two years. We were breaking camp every couple of days, moving a few leagues, joining with new regiments, scouting, fighting, moving on again. d'Artagnan was ... hard to reach. Not just injured but – _ill_. It was an impossible time for him. He needed time to rest, to put weight on, to heal, to talk – and we couldn't give him any of that."

Porthos chipped in. "Worried us sick – Fouchard took to following 'im around the camp cos he wouldn't stay in one place, and 'e wouldn't say what he wanted, or needed. Wouldn't really talk at all." He looked at d'Artagnan, his face reflecting the anguish and helplessness he still felt at not knowing how to help him. "He wasn't sleepin', an' if 'e did sleep, it was sometimes just minutes before 'e woke again in a sweat."

Porthos had been great, d'Artagnan remembered. They'd always shared a tiny two-man tent whenever they could: cots within touching distance, no privacy. Porthos would be there in an instant when d'Artagnan woke from a nightmare, pulling him into a hug before he was even properly awake. Half the time, d'Artagnan remembered with shame, he'd pushed the big man away, unable to cope with being held, but Porthos had never shown any hurt, only patience.

"'e'd just disappear then to the lake, spent hours swimmin', didn't you? Or to the horses, if it was too dark to be out of the camp."

He'd needed to keep busy so no one would talk to him or ask him questions, and so he didn't have time to think. But he had no strength. He'd lost so much weight that the smallest exertion tired him, and after a hour floating in the lake he sometimes had to lie on the bank for another hour, shivering, until he had the energy to begin the walk back to camp. They'd moved camp two days after he'd first left the medic's tent, but only to the other side of the lake, a few miles further south. It had been a longer walk to the lake but he still went there whenever the noise and bustle of camp got too much for him. At other times he would retreat to the horse lines, always a tranquil space to allow the horses to rest between battles. He would check their feet, one by one, groom them if he had the energy. If not he would simply sit near Nuit, listening to the rhythm of her chewing the coarse grass that passed for fodder, or feeling her breath warm on his neck as she sniffed and huffed at him companionably.

"You couldn' stand the mess tent, could ya? Not sure why, 'cos everyone there wanted to talk to you, make sure you were okay."

That was exactly why. He couldn't bear the looks, the questions, the back-slaps. Every time someone greeted him and said they were glad he was back in one piece, it twisted in his gut. He _wasn't_ back in one piece. He wasn't sure he would ever be whole again. And they would ask questions about the others on the patrol, how they had died. He couldn't answer them; wasn't ready to think about it.

"I reckoned it was the noise. Tended to get rowdy in there, 'specially after a battle. Relief, usually. An' hunger – we were always hungry."

He hadn't been hungry. Etienne had made him eat in the medic's tent once he found out d'Artagnan was refusing to go to the mess tent. Three times a day he had to sit there, staring into a bowl of congealing stew, trying to convince his hand to dip the spoon in, and his mouth to accept it. Etienne had been surprisingly gentle with him, ordering different types of food to try to tempt him. But in those early days, anything other than bread and fruit would make his stomach churn, and he frequently vomited it straight back up.

It was Fouchard who scrounged apples from the farms around, and once a whole round of fresh goat's cheese. It was the first thing d'Artagnan could remember relishing for many, many weeks, and he'd eaten every scrap in two sittings, making Fouchard's face glow with pride.

"It was the smell," he said now. "I just couldn't stomach meat, not for ages."

"And there wasn't much in the way of fresh food at that time," said Athos, realisation dawning. He turned to Constance to explain. "We lived off dried meat and pulses. Same stew, day after day. Bread, usually, and some root vegetables, but rarely any fruit, or green vegetables." He paused, studying d'Artagnan. "So your problem with food – that was just meat? Because of the rats?"

d'Artagnan nodded, reluctantly. It sounded ridiculous now – but then, every time he saw strips of dried meat hanging from the drying racks, or smelled blood when a fresh carcass was stripped ready for smoking, his stomach rebelled. He glanced at Porthos, who looked as if he was struggling to understand anyone who didn't enjoy a hearty bowl of stew, and smiled, briefly. "You were right, though, Porthos: it was also the noise in there. So many people, so much emotion. – I felt... it reminded me of the jeering when they were – interrogating us. Stupid, but..."

"Jesus, d'Artagnan, how many times!" Porthos sounded furious, pulling all eyes his way. He looked around, breathed through his nose, and shook his head in apology. "Sorry, but – how many times did we tell you: nothin' is stupid when you've been through what you did. There's no right way to heal, an' you always 'ad our support. Nothin' to apologise for, you know that!"

d'Artagnan nodded, but the expression in his eyes was distant, so it was Athos who picked up the threads again.

"I excused him from all duty so he could recuperate. Etienne said he had to get his weight back up before he would have the strength to train, which he thought would take weeks. We were both worried about him but I thought he would talk when he was ready, and I didn't want to force him."

Constance noticed Aramis nodding and sighed. It was hard to keep up with all these revelations and the heightened emotions in the room. All she wanted to do was wrap d'Artagnan in her arms and protect him from everything, but she was helpless here. It felt as if they were all being carried along this journey of revelation together. Originally she'd been stunned that so much of this conversation seemed to be news to both Athos and Porthos, but she was beginning to understand why they had not heard the details of his captivity before.

"He might have been alright, in time. But the Spanish had retreated into a valley, over those few days when we first got d'Artagnan back; and by the end of that week the Generals were determined to root them out. They called all the officers together, laid out the battle plans: no discussion, no scouting. And it was a bloody fiasco."

Constance couldn't remember the last time she'd heard Athos swear, even mildly. Both he and Porthos were radiating tension as they began to speak about that battle, but her eyes were on d'Artagnan who, if anything, looked even more remote and detached from the conversation than before. She was just beginning to understand that this was not through a lack of emotion, but on the contrary, was a defence mechanism: a way of controlling his emotions so they didn't overwhelm him. Mentally kicking herself for not realising this before, she stowed the information away for later, and re-focussed on Athos and Porthos.

"The meeting was at six in the evening so by the time I got back to camp, it was too late to send my own scouts out. I briefed my officers and we prepared the men that night, and everyone mustered at first light the next morning. It was the first major offensive since the day d'Artagnan discharged himself from the infirmary, and he found even the preparations hard to cope with."

* * *

 _Author's Note: Bon sang_ is _e_ quivalent to damn it!

 _Next time we'll hear about that battle and its aftermath. Thanks for reading_!


	9. Chapter 9: We Sit and We Wait Part IV

Hey, we're half way through! This chapter is still quite long (sorry): I considered splitting it but it fits together as it's the last part of the story of what happened after d'Artagnan's captivity, so I left it in one piece.

 **Chapter Nine: We Sit and We Wait and We Drown There Part IV**

 _Larrau, Summer 1634_

Porthos had told him of the plans the night before. Neither had slept much, and d'Artagnan had gone to the horses at 2 or 3am, unable to lie in his bed any longer. The camp was buzzing quietly as usual the night before a major fight, and by 5am everyone was up and breaking their fast, honing swords, collecting fresh powder and shot, or just talking quietly around the fire. d'Artagnan kept himself busy tacking up the horses and loading spare weapons and powder onto the supply wagons that followed the army onto the battlefields. Athos gave the order to mount up at 6.30 for a final inspection by General Marche, but when the General rode into the Musketeer's section of camp, he spotted d'Artagnan on the ground helping others to mount.

"Why is he not armoured?"

"That's d'Artagnan sir, he's – "

"I know who it is dammit! One of your best fighters – get him mounted, I'm not leaving him here."

"He's injured, sir. You'll remember he was captured and only..."

"Looks fit enough to me! Now stop being a bloody nursemaid and get him over here – You! Oy! d'Artagnan, over here, on the double!"

Startled, d'Artagnan stepped back from the girth he was helping to adjust, and walked reluctantly over to where Athos stood fuming next to the General's horse.

"What's wrong with you?" snapped the General as he approached.

d'Artagnan looked blankly at the General. Athos hadn't heard him speak for several days – possibly not since they'd liberated him, he realised – and jumped in quickly.

"He's severely malnourished and not fighting-fit, General. He's on light-duties – "

"Rubbish. Mount up, d'Artagnan, can't leave a fighter of your calibre swanning around camp while we're doing all the hard work."

And with that the General signalled to his officers, who gave the orders for the foot-soldiers to march. As they swept through camp, the General kept his horse back, clearly waiting for Athos and the Musketeers to join the column of men.

Despairingly, Athos nodded to Porthos who scowled but ordered Fouchard to fetch d'Artagnan's saddle and horse while d'Artagnan fetched his weapons. Athos caught d'Artagnan by the elbow as he returned.

"Stay by my side, do you hear? I want you where I can see you at all times!"

d'Artagnan nodded and mounted slowly, stiffly, looking for all the world as if he'd forgotten how to ride a horse.

Porthos stayed by his side until they reached the valley where they would confront the Spanish forces. The valley floor was already brown with the dust churned up by thousands of boots and hooves, but the atmosphere was subdued – no roaring of challenges as the French army approached, just a low-level murmuring and the constant chink of armour being adjusted and weapons hoisted.

The French army spread slowly across the open end of the valley, forming lines four men deep as detailed by the Generals the night before. Athos sent half of his musketeers to each flank, ready to support the foot soldiers wherever it was needed. As instructed, d'Artagnan stayed close by Athos, watching everything but saying nothing.

He looked impossibly pale and gaunt, as if a strong wind would knock him to the ground. It was barely a week since he'd been rescued from near death, and quite apart from his wounds which were still healing, he wasn't strong yet, wilting in the saddle before the battle began. Athos cursed under his breath and edged Roger closer. "I want you as a runner, d'Artagnan. Keep your eye on me and be ready to take messages to the flanks if necessary."

d'Artagnan nodded his understanding, bit his lip, and fiddled with his reins. Taking a last regretful look at the Gascon's bandaged fingers, and realising to his dismay that d'Artagnan was still in his shirt sleeves, having had no time to don his battle-armour, Athos turned to watch for the signal to advance.

To begin with things went well. The infantry made good ground and the Spanish forces fell back steadily under the advance. The east wing, nearest Athos, pushed forward enthusiastically as they reached the middle of the valley, backed by the Musketeers. Athos sent d'Artagnan with messages to the centre, and to check on the progress of the Musketeers on the west wing, and each time he returned swiftly, looking pale but determined.

Something was nagging at Athos. It was shaping up to be one of their easiest battles, and on such a large scale that he was beginning to be suspicious. Was it all too easy? Watching closely, he realised the Spanish _tercios_ were not forming their usual _cuadros -_ where the ranks of pikeman would form a square, in a dragon-toothed line where the leading edge of one _cuadro_ stood level with the trailing edge of the next unit. Instead they were lining in straight ranks, which fell back regularly with each advance from the French infantry. The _arquebusiers_ (pistol-bearers) who normally deployed in _mangas_ \- mobile groups arrayed in 'sleeves' at each corner of the _cuadro -_ were nowhere to be seen. But, given the speed of the French advance, the Spanish casualties seemed low as they took defensive action to fall back rather than engage.

Athos' instincts were screaming at him now. This was all wrong!

Just as he'd come to this conclusion, he noticed the eastern flank rocketing forward as the Spanish wing fell back at a run. He bellowed at them to hold their position but it was hopeless trying to make himself heard over the battle-roar. He had to alert the Generals! They stood in a group behind the centre of the army, watching with satisfied expressions. Against his better judgement he shouted at d'Artagnan to get to Porthos on the east wing and try to pull the infantry back.

d'Artagnan took off at a gallop, clearly understanding the problem instinctively and seeing the danger the Musketeers would be in if they followed the infantry. Athos headed away from the lines towards the Generals at a flat-out pace, shouting and pointing at the east wing as soon as he was within earshot. General Marche listened with a frown as Athos breathlessly explained his fears, but the other three Generals dismissed his concerns as nonsense. The wing was making excellent progress and General Fusier spat that "if your Musketeers are too cowardly to engage the enemy they will be cashiered".

Seeing the futility of trying to alert them to a danger that had not yet happened, Athos hauled Roger around and sent him flying back towards the east wing, expecting to see d'Artagnan returning to his position.

But in those few minutes he'd been arguing with the Generals, everything had changed.

The infantry had reached a spur of higher ground protruding into the valley and flowed over it easily, pursuing the retreating Spanish. But hidden behind the higher land waited _cuadro_ upon _cuadro_ of Spanish fighters, moving swiftly into position along the flat land to the west, effectively cutting off the advancing infantry from the rest of the French army. Seeing the danger, Porthos had no choice but to order the Musketeers to back up the infantry, and they were quickly enveloped in the fiercest hand-to-hand fighting of the morning as the infantry were swallowed up by double their number of Spanish pikemen. At the same time mobile units of _arquebusiers_ appeared on the higher ground, firing into the French ranks and cutting their numbers in minutes.

d'Artagnan had arrived at the eastern flank a minute too late to reach Porthos or any of the infantry Captains. For a moment he dithered, keeping back from the fighting as he'd been ordered, and as Athos returned from his futile discussion with the Generals he could see the young Musketeer cantering back and forth along the rear of the army lines, anxiously scanning the maelstrom which was engulfing the Musketeers. But before Athos could get within shouting range, he saw d'Artagnan stiffen and leap off his horse, drawing his sword in one swift motion and then racing into the centre of the eastern flank, disappearing from view within seconds.

Screaming a curse that was lost in the roar of battle, Athos skidded to a halt and backed Roger up, bellowing orders to the few men who could hear him to "Pull back! Retreat!"

Scanning the melee desperately, he suddenly caught sight of Porthos as the swirl of battle opened up for a second. His lieutenant was on his knees, literally, curls flying as he swept his sword viciously at waist-height to clear a gap around him. As his attackers took a step back, he struggled to regain his feet but then fell back again. Athos screamed his name uselessly, wanting nothing more than to dive in there – but knowing his place was here, in full view of his men, acting as a rallying point and ready to guide them with his orders. So he could only watch with futile rage as the press of men closed around Porthos again.

Long moments passed with no visible change; no Frenchmen extricating themselves; and no sign of either Porthos or d'Artagnan. Athos shouted until he was hoarse, dust coating his face, sweat running in rivers down his cheeks, sword above his head signalling in vain to his men to retreat and re-form. No one could hear him and no one had time to look behind them for orders. The Spanish pikemen closed around the French and it seemed the wing would be lost.

But suddenly there was a new flurry of movement in the centre of the fighting. The battle-sounds changed, subtly, and it seemed he could hear French exhortations amongst the Spanish cries of triumph. A few Musketeers burst out of the dust cloud, dragging injured Frenchmen, dropping them and disappearing back into the mayhem. A group of infantrymen ran out then stood and regrouped as more followed them. To the west, Captain Mercier had noticed the danger and pulled some of his men across, stopping the Spanish from completing their flanking manoeuvre and forcing them to turn from the engulfed Frenchman to fight on their western side. And in the centre...

In the centre of all of this he suddenly made out Porthos' head, still moving as he hacked his way clear of the worst of the fighting. And beside him a precious glimpse of d'Artagnan, his slender frame a blur of motion, dark hair flying as he cut and thrust.

* * *

Ten minutes later and it was all over, on their wing at least. The Spanish had pursued the retreating Frenchmen, but the French battalion in the centre had stood fast and the Spanish hesitated to advance past them for fear of being cut off themselves. The beleaguered French wing regrouped and pushed towards the centre, and suddenly the Spanish began to pull back from the pincer movement – this time for real.

By this time Captain Mercier had joined Athos and together they moved men swiftly into position to back up the decimated eastern troops, allowing them to retreat with their injured.

One of the last to emerge was Porthos, supported by d'Artagnan on one side and Fouchard on the other. Athos was off his horse in an instant, running towards them; propriety be damned. Close to, he could see blood trickling down Porthos' face from a gash above his ear, and a dark stain spreading from the top of his thigh. d'Artagnan's face was bloodied too though he couldn't see the source, but more worryingly he was weaving on his feet even more than Porthos. Fouchard struggled with both of them, steering them straight as best he could but having to detour around bodies and injured men groaning on the ground.

Athos didn't know who to grab as he reached them, but Porthos was yelling above the din that he was okay, it wasn't serious, so he responded to the hidden entreaty and caught d'Artagnan by the arm. d'Artagnan looked at him with sluggish eyes, then simply folded to the ground in front of him.

Athos dragged d'Artagnan out while Fouchard supported Porthos. They made it to where Nuit was still standing where d'Artagnan had left her so abruptly less than thirty minutes earlier. Athos checked Porthos' leg, stuffed a field dressing into his hand and booted him up into the saddle, aware of General Marche thundering up. Quickly he shoved Fouchard forward to support d'Artagnan, telling him to get the Gascon up in front of Porthos and get them both back to base, _now_!

* * *

First embroiled in a fierce argument with the General about the way he'd ordered the retreat from the eastern flank without permission, then staying to supervise the mopping up operation, it was more than four hours before Athos made it back to camp himself, by which time his anxiety levels had rocketed and his remaining patience was in tatters.

Heading straight for the field hospital he saw rows of cots, all occupied, lined up outside the canvas walls. Thirty or forty men at least lay in various states of injury. Stopping to talk to everyone who was conscious, it was another ten minutes before Athos made it inside and finally laid eyes on the two men he fretted over most. Both were sitting on the same cot, leaning against one another – or rather, he amended silently, d'Artagnan was holding himself stiffly upright, almost leaning away from Porthos who had an arm wrapped around the Gascon's blood-spattered shoulders.

"How are you both?" he asked of Porthos, without preamble.

Porthos looked up with a faint smile on his face, only an echo of his normal grin. Weariness was etched in every blood-drawn line on his face.

"We're okay, aren't we, d'Artagnan?" He nudged d'Artagnan, then grabbed at him more tightly as the youngster threatened to topple over. Athos grimaced, taking over from Porthos and encouraging the Gascon to lie down but with no success. Porthos was shaking his head on d'Artagnan's other side. "He won't settle here, Athos. Best get him back to our tent."

"Have his injuries been tended?" Athos asked, scanning the lad quickly for the source of the blood coating his face, arms and chest.

"Most of that's not 'is," Porthos said lightly. "Got a slice across the back, is all: it's been checked but it'll need stitching eventually, when they've time."

Athos looked around, having momentarily forgotten the chaotic hustle around him in his anxiety over this pair. "And you, my friend? I saw you go down." For a moment he couldn't speak, the memory of his fear of those long minutes overwhelming him and constricting his throat.

Porthos smiled, a genuine one this time. "Took a blade in my leg, bash on the head. Nothin' we can't manage ourselves."

Athos made up his mind and rose, grabbing a handful of bandages and one of the leather pouches which he knew contained stitching kits. He helped both men to their feet, grabbing Porthos around the waist to steady him when he hissed in pain as his leg straightened. Steering them towards the entrance, he called out to Etienne who was working frantically over an infantryman with a gaping chest wound. "I'll get you some more help, Etienne."

In the tent they shared, Athos steered d'Artagnan to his cot and helped Porthos to sit, before disappearing to organise extra men to help the medics. He was back within a few minutes with water to clean their wounds, but saw immediately that things had deteriorated with d'Artagnan. He was now lying curled in on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, facing the canvas wall. In this position Athos could see the slash in his shirt and the blood leaking from the underlying wound across his back.

Grimacing, Athos looked at Porthos, who had pulled off his own weapons belt, chest and shoulder plates and was struggling to stuff another bandage down the top of his trousers.

Making up his mind, he decided to leave d'Artagnan until he'd patched Porthos up. They both needed his attention, and at least this would give him the chance to talk to his Lieutenant.

Porthos clearly had the same idea, waving Athos to sit next to him then saying quietly and without preamble: "He ran amok, Athos."

Jesus. Athos knew immediately what Porthos meant. They'd both seen it before in battle, where someone was in such a killing frenzy that nothing seemed to stop them*. Athos clearly remembered seeing a maniacal snarl on the face of a Huguenot in the Siege of Alès the year before d'Artagnan had arrived in Paris. Armed with nothing but a butcher's knife, the Hugeunot had taken down a dozen of the king's soldiers as they overran the town, retaking it from the last of the rebelling protestants. He had been stabbed and run through several times but just kept coming at them and it had taken four of them together to finally bring him down.

Amok. The very phrase terrified Athos. It signified someone beyond reason, someone for who life had ceased to have meaning. Applied to d'Artagnan? He could not countenance it.

But Porthos was gripping his arm, and staring at him intently. "Athos. It's true. I didn't recognise 'im and 'e scared me. 'e shouldn't be able to lift his bloody sword at the moment but 'e was right in the thick of it, screaming 'is 'ead off an' cutting them down. They _ran_ , Athos. The _tercios_ , they ran before 'im. Turned the tide 'e did, no doubt, an' saved my life, I'm sure of it, but Athos: you 'ave to do something. Can't 'ave him do that again. Can't watch that again, Athos."

He was almost pleading, clearly shaken by the experience, and Athos listened, eyes bleak, then suddenly pulled Porthos in for a rare hug. "No, we can't." He was thinking of his own fear as he watched d'Artagnan get swallowed up by the intense fighting, waiting for a glimpse of him but frightened he would see only the familiar figure lying on the ground when the battle lines shifted. No, he couldn't go through that again, not while d'Artagnan was so vulnerable. He'd have to think of some way to keep him safe until he was back in his right mind.

* * *

"So Constance, you must understand the state he was in then. If I hadn't done something I think we would have lost him, one way or another. I had no choice ... " Athos hesitated, looking apprehensively at Constance, but she was confused.

"What? What aren't you telling me?"

"He sent me back to Paris."

d'Artagnan's voice cut across the silence like a scythe, emotionless and flat as if he had no understanding of what this would mean for Constance.

Athos looked down and sighed. It took a second or two for the words to sink in but then she was off. He glanced up at Porthos, amused to see the big man leaning surreptitiously away from Constance as she shoved herself to her feet, leaning both hands on the table as she glared across at Athos. Yes, of course it's my fault, he thought wryly, that I sent him away from the battle to keep him safe. Of course it's my fault that he didn't come to see you. To be fair, his mind mused even as he took a step sideways, watching her stalk around the table towards him, to be fair it was actually no one's fault, least of all d'Artagnan's, if he hadn't felt capable of facing Constance at that time. After all they'd now been home from the war several weeks before this all started coming out, and that was with two year's distance from everything, so if he was still struggling to tell her everything, who could blame him if at the time ... _Wallop_!

Boy, she could slap well, he thought, as his head rattled sideways and his vision danced crazily. He didn't think he'd been on the receiving end before, though Aramis certainly had. He had tuned out her actual rant as soon as it started, but now her voice rose dangerously as she followed his lurch sideways, hand ready for another go, with words like "selfish" and "thoughtless" raining down on him.

The gist of her tirade was that he should have told her that her husband was sent back to Paris, and he couldn't really argue with her, except that d'Artagnan had pleaded with him not to send him away from the front. When Athos had stood firm, he'd given in but begged him not to tell Constance. Since that was the first actual conversation he'd engaged in since they'd dragged him out of the oubliette, Athos wasn't inclined to argue with him. He had just been glad to hear the Gascon's voice again and have this first proper glimpse into his state of mind. Which was to be utterly unmovable in his opposition to Athos informing Constance.

After he'd plunged into the battle to rescue Porthos, d'Artagnan had slept unmoving for more than 24 hours, not even stirring when Athos tended the wound which curled across his back, deep enough in places to need stitches. When he finally woke, he was so weak and his muscles so stiff that he could barely stand. Athos felt guilty taking advantage of his weakened state but he was convinced that the musketeer would not survive if he stayed with them.

The disastrous battle in which both Porthos and d'Artagnan were injured had claimed hundreds of French lives, and the army was in disarray with Generals scrapping amongst themselves to lay blame and propose new strategies. The one thing Athos was sure of was that they would be fighting again in days; and if d'Artagnan was forced to fight again he would surely perish, battle-fury or no.

So Athos had been unyielding in his determination to send d'Artagnan to Paris to recuperate, and the Gascon had been equally obstinate. Since he intended to dispatch letters with d'Artagnan to explain why he was being sent from the front, Athos could see no value in insisting on penning a letter to Constance which he knew would not be delivered, and had eventually given in, writing instead to Tréville, at length, explaining everything that he'd observed and begging Tréville to find a physician expert in battle-weariness who might be able to help d'Artagnan to recover his spirit.

Faced with the reality of a wife brimming over with fear for her husband, who had already listened to details of his imprisonment and battles that a wife should never be privy to, now informed he'd been in Paris – within reach of her comfort – during the war but had not sought her out – Athos was helpless in the face of her fury.

With the threat of another slap imminent, Aramis doing his best to look invisible and Porthos retreating steadily towards the door in the face of her rage, it was d'Artagnan who stepped in – literally, placing his body between her and Athos.

"It was my decision."

Four words, which cut her to the quick.

Constance just gaped at him for a moment, then directed a new outburst at d'Artagnan. How could he simply decide something so hurtful? Did he not realise how she'd worried, _every_ minute of _every_ day? And knowing now that he'd been injured badly enough to need sending home to recover, how _could_ he have come to Paris, been within _touching_ distance of her, and not come to reassure her? To take her fears and allay them, just for a day or two, so she could see for herself that he still lived, was still the man she loved more deeply than her own life?

"But I wasn't, Constance. I was not that man, then. And perhaps still am not. I could not ..." He suddenly sighed, closing his eyes as a deep sense of failure washed over him, but seeing her tear-stained face upon opening them again, he forced himself to continue, to try to explain. "I could not bear you to see me then."

She just looked at him, eyes filling with tears again, and uttered one word, rich with hurt. " _Why?"_

And he could not answer, not without telling her everything, at last, things he could not think of, had not articulated to anyone since that time. With hands that felt unlike his own, he reached out to her, intending to take her hands in his, to try to communicate with his body what his mouth could not.

But she whipped her hands aside and stepped backwards. "No, d'Artagnan, you cannot – you have to explain. This, I have to know or ... "

She could not finish, but d'Artagnan's face twisted in something like grief. He understood what she was saying: that this was a betrayal of sorts. It wasn't so much, perhaps, that he had come to Paris without seeing her; she understood that he would not do that lightly. But not to give her some sign, nor attempt to contact her, to reassure her that he was alive, was intensely hurtful; and if he could not trust her enough to explain _now_ , when it was all over, or should have been, it would eat away at her trust in him.

He could see all this in her eyes, and understood it completely. And yet ... She did not know what she was asking of him!

One man did though; one man knew exactly how hard it would be for him to be honest. After being watchfully silent for so long, Aramis finally spoke.

"It wasn't a choice, made out of love, or – or fear, Constance. He had no control over anything, at that time. He was simply existing, just trying to survive."

He steeled himself as three pairs of eyes swivelled towards him as the implication of his words sank in, then two voices burst out almost simultaneously – one gruff and angry, the other close to tears – "You saw him?"

Only Athos was silent, and when Aramis looked at him he was nodding quietly to himself, a look of something close to approval on his taciturn features.

Porthos – already on a knife-edge of emotions – caught the glance and pounced on it. "You knew? Athos, you knew this? And 'ang on! Oh no, no, no... d'Artagnan, you saw Aramis? And never said a word? All those times around the fire or when we were injured, when we missed 'im? When we wondered how 'e fared and whether 'e thought of us and whether 'e'd made the right decision and..." his words tumbling out now, like the torrent unleashed when a stone is pulled from a dam, his voice rising dangerously and half rising out of his chair, head jutting forward to glare at d'Artagnan "... and you never said anything? Not ONE WORD of him, to reassure me?"

"Porthos, it was – "

Aramis got no further before the big Musketeer had rounded on him, fully out of his chair now and pushing past Constance to where he sat.

"No, Aramis, _NO_! You do _not_ have a say in this! You lost the right when you left us to deal with _everything_ without you. You _don't_ get to tell me what I should feel about this." Nose within inches of Aramis now, practically spitting into his face, heat radiating off him like a physical manifestation of his boiling anger at everyone in the room for keeping secrets, for not trusting him. Again.

Aramis wisely didn't answer him, keeping his face calm, raising hands with upturned palms as if trying to negotiate with a violent man who doesn't speak your language. As indeed, at that moment, Porthos was.

There was a second or two of silence in the room as Porthos' words, hissed through clenched teeth, settled in the air. Then the one man who had been motionless throughout the outburst stirred, and sighed, and walked slowly to the door. Turning with his hand on the latch, he looked back at them all with eyes full of pain and spoke in a near whisper. "I'm sorry, Porthos, Constance. I can't... I can't do this. Aramis, I'm sorry ... "

He shook his head in despair and turned to open the door. For a moment it seemed everyone was too stunned to react, but then Aramis called out over Porthos' shoulder. "You don't have to, d'Artagnan. I can help, if you want. I can explain this part. All you have to do is stay, d'Artagnan, just sit by the fire – look, we need to feed it. Why don't you put some logs on, and pull up a chair..."

By now Porthos had stepped back, rage slowly draining from him as he realised what Aramis was trying to do. Aramis' voice was gentle, almost hypnotic as he kept up a flow of simple words; no emotion, nothing challenging, just steady words that spoke of comfort and peace. "Constance will make some tea, some of your camomile and honey, perhaps? Pull up a chair, d'Artagnan, get yourself warm again. Maybe there are some blankets we could use. The night is chilly now, isn't it?"

It was true. The air had cooled as they talked and d'Artagnan was cold – he was shivering, in fact, although that had little to do with the dwindling fire and all to do with the overwhelming emotions in the room.

Within moments the cadence of Aramis' words was soothing them all like a favourite blanket settling around their shoulders. Constance blinked away her tears and was fetching herbs and a pot of honey from her cupboards and setting the kettle over the fire, which Porthos rebuilt, blowing on the embers until he had a good blaze going again. Aramis stepped quietly around the room, turning chairs to face the fire and, at Constance's direction, fetching cushions and blankets from their bed. Athos meanwhile placed another cup of wine in d'Artagnan's cold hand, and gently steered him to sit on the chair nearest the fire.

Pulling a blanket around him, worried by his complete lack of resistance or reaction to any of these arrangements, Athos settled on the floor by his side, leaning against d'Artagnan's legs in the hope that his physical presence might give comfort. He did not know what was coming, but he felt, as they all did, that it would not be pleasant for d'Artagnan to tell, or for his friends to hear.

That thought reminded him, and he caught Porthos by the arm as he moved past them to pick up his own goblet from the table. "I did not know, Porthos. I had _hoped_ , when I sent him here, that Tréville might find a way – I always thought Aramis of all people would be able to help him. But I did not know, and did not ask."

Porthos paused, looking at Athos' hand on his wrist, then twisted his own hand to clasp Athos' warmly, nodding his thanks for the reassurance.

Finally they had all resettled around the fireplace, cups of tea or goblets of wine to hand according to preference. Now the weight of expectation settled again heavily on d'Artagnan's shoulders and he fidgeted, rubbing his fingers again in the habit that Constance was learning to hate, now she recognised it as one that emerged when his memories did.

"I don't remember the journey to Paris," he began eventually, settling on a straightforward part of the tale to begin with. "I remember feeling l-lost. That I had failed. Let you d-down. I didn't... didn't want to l-l-leave but I didn't know w-w-where to g-go where it would be s-s-sa-safe."

Constance stirred, looking at the others. Had none of them noticed d'Artagnan's stuttering delivery? She'd never heard him this uncertain, and a wave of panic washed over her. But Athos was listening as if there was nothing amiss, and Porthos just nodded quietly at her, as if to say 'it's alright, he'll be fine,' and she realised that it might not be the first time they had heard him speak like this.

She noticed Aramis had a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, and she touched his arm tentatively, feeling unbearably grateful that he immediately wrapped his fingers around hers. He was still there, then, 'her' d'Artagnan: that bit of him that she did not have to share with any of the others, much as she loved them deeply.

He breathed, sighed, and carried on doggedly. "I don't remember thinking much, on the way, but when I got to Paris it was – it all – c-crashed in on me again. There was so much n-n-noise, so many p-people! I didn't ... I couldn't remember what to do." A long pause. "Nuit took me to the Garrison. I was in such a state that I didn't notice what she was doing until we were at the archway." A shudder. "I didn't recognise the guards, thank goodness. I'd stopped her right in the entrance, and they asked me what I wanted, so I had to answer. I couldn't think, for a moment... then I remembered Athos was sending me to Tréville... I asked for him. They said he would be there for muster in a couple of hours. So I waited, in the square outside, until..."

"Until I turned up for a routine muster, and got the shock of my life."

There was a creak of leather and they all looked up to see Tréville standing in the doorway. Constance stood to greet him, wondering how long he'd been standing there. Should she invite him in? Normally there would be no question, he was always a welcome visitor, but now - she looked quickly at d'Artagnan to see his reaction. The room was already crowded and he might not want more of an audience.

She was relieved to see a smile on d'Artagnan's lips as he rose from the fireside and scooped up a goblet to hand to Tréville. Immediately the others stirred, shifting chairs and making room for him, and she realised they'd all been waiting for a lead from d'Artagnan. She stood by the dresser, crossing her arms and watching them as they adjusted naturally around the man they all still saw as their leader, even Athos. Especially Athos.

"Missed you at muster," explained Tréville as he took a sip of wine. Looks of consternation and a couple of oaths around the room, as they all realised they'd completely missed evening muster, which was unheard of when they did not have the excuse of a mission.

Athos should have been leading it, but he seemed least bothered out of all of them. "What happened?" he enquired, sounding interested more than anything.

Tréville laughed. "They were milling around when I got here. Cloutaire was trying to line everyone up and they were ribbing him terribly. Someone else started doing an impression of you, Athos – I won't tell you who because he doesn't deserve to get into trouble: it was far too entertaining. He was stalking around telling people off for having spots of dust on their boots and scratches on their pauldrons ... What?" He stopped his account as Aramis started chuckling and Porthos guffawed. Even Athos looked amused. d'Artagnan looked around as if everyone was mad and it was left to Constance, who had observed the morning's muster, to explain to both of those who had missed it.

When they'd all settled down again, and Tréville had declined Constance's offer of food – "I can't stay long, really only came to catch up with you all after yesterday" – he caught each eye in turn, gaze lingering longest on d'Artagnan. "So, what have I missed?"

Everyone looked at d'Artagnan who looked slightly panicked. He really didn't want to have to start again from the beginning. Aramis helped him out. "We've been talking about when d'Artagnan was captured. He's told us a bit, but not everything, yet."

Not even Porthos, this time, questioned how Aramis could sound so sure that there was more to come although he gave him a sharp look before adding: "'e's just tellin' us bout what 'appened when 'e came to Paris."

Tréville nodded, a distant look in his eyes as he remembered his first sight of d'Artagnan since sending the youngster off to war.

* * *

Note:

 *** Running amok** originates from the Malay/Indonesian word _meng-âmuk_ , which roughly translates as: "to make a furious and desperate charge", according to Wikipedia. The meaning is similar to "going beserk" but that is a more modern term. Amok is first recorded in a written account in 1670 but there are references to the phenomenon in India in 1634 and earlier, so I thought it was a term that the Musketeer soldiers might have heard. It is used to describe an episode of "sudden mass assault against people ... following a period of brooding and ... is now increasingly viewed as psychopathological behaviour", and I reckon with everything d'Artagnan has gone through (of which we have still only heard a part so far), being forced back into battle so soon and so mentally drained might well have tipped him temporarily over the edge.

The siege of Ales in 1629 followed the capitulation of the Protestant stronghold at La Rochelle, and was King Louis XIII's last effort to eliminate the Huguenot resistance in the South of France. I figured this was something the Musketeers might have been involved in, though the Huguenot running amok is my invention.


	10. Chapter 10 Song for the Heartsick Part I

_Hello everyone! I'm early because the chapter is ready, and it's the weekend, plus I read on the web last night that the world is going to end today (yes, again) so I thought we might need entertaining whilst we wait..._

 _A welcome change of pace here! This next part was originally one chapter but I realised it was over 10000 words so I decided to split it. Next chapter will follow soon, hopefully this weekend._

 **Chapter Ten: Song for the Heartsick Part I**

 _Paris,_ _Summer 1634_

Tréville almost missed the tentatively respectful "Sir? There was someone to see you earlier" that came from the young cadet on guard duty. With his head full of anger that the King had refused his latest request to recruit more cadets - complaining as usual that the cost of the war had emptied his coffers and he couldn't afford any more rich Parisian second sons lazing around in the Garrison at his expense – Tréville took a moment to respond. But when the young guard pointed out the figure standing by a sturdy war horse on the opposite side of the square, all other thoughts fled his mind.

He was over there in seconds. Flinging himself off his horse he stepped closer, still disbelieving his eyes. "d'Artagnan? _Mon Dieu_ , d'Artagnan, I barely recognised you! Athos wrote to me of your release from the Spanish but didn't mention sending you to Paris. You don't know how good it is to see you!" He grabbed the young Musketeer by the shoulders and pulled him close, then stopped in shock at the fragility of the thin frame he found himself hugging. "Mon Dieu! What happened to you?"

When d'Artagnan did not immediately respond, he let go and stepped back, feeling suddenly chilled. "Is something wrong? The others, are they ... "

A sigh of relief escaped him as d'Artagnan shook his head, his overlong, unruly hair flying across his eyes. "They're both fine." His voice sounded rough, as if from disuse. He seemed to make a huge effort and reached into his black doublet, pulling out several letters and handing them to Tréville, who took them automatically, glanced down to see Athos' familiar script, then turned, gesturing d'Artagnan to follow him.

"Let's go to my old office and get comfortable. Why did you wait out here? You must have travelled through the night to arrive so early. Constance will be back from market soon and I can imagine..." Suddenly aware that he was walking alone, he looked back to see a look of utter panic on d'Artagnan's features. "What is it, d'Artagnan?"

"I can't – can't go in." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.

Tréville returned to where he stood holding Nuit, fingers wrapped tightly around her reins as if they were a lifeline. His brow creased as he noticed that d'Artagnan was trembling – visibly shaking.

Tréville was struggling to adjust to this wild-eyed, gaunt version of d'Artagnan, so different from the confident, ever-cheerful Gascon who had left for the front two years earlier. "Right. Well then, how about if we go to the old Bonacieux house? I know it's still empty and I could ask Constance to join us there if you prefer?"

"No!" It was almost a shout, which seemed to surprise d'Artagnan as much as Tréville. Breathing deeply, d'Artagnan took a step back, holding out a trembling hand towards Tréville as to ward him off. "I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I shouldn't be here ..."

What did he mean – had he deserted? No – relief as he found his own answer immediately – no, he had letters from Athos so he must have left with his Captain's knowledge. He needed to read those letters, dammit!

"Well then, shall we just wait until she comes? She won't be long now – "

"You don't understand: I can't see her! Not like this, I can't, I just ... oh, _God_!" A whispered breath of despair.

No closer to understanding, but finally recognising the source of his distress – that it was the thought of seeing Constance that was inexplicably sending the Gascon into panic, Tréville took d'Artagnan by the arm and turned him away from the Garrison, feeling an instant reaction as d'Artagnan's tension dropped by a notch.

Encouraged, but still feeling his way carefully, Tréville started to walk, urging both d'Artagnan and the horses with him. He sensed that d'Artagnan would bolt if he got this wrong, but he needed to get the lad somewhere where he could talk to him properly and find out what was going on. Looking around and mentally going through the options in this quarter of Paris, Tréville remembered a small and reasonably decent inn nearby. He suggested it to d'Artagnan, not getting any response which he hoped was a good thing, and steered him down a series of side streets until they reached the inn he had been thinking of, _Le_ _Cochon Volant_.

Within minutes he'd negotiated a rate to include stabling and a meal, had left the horses with the groom, and was leading d'Artagnan upstairs to a small but airy room. Without further words – already adapting to d'Artagnan's apparent need for silence, or at least avoidance of unnecessary chatter – Tréville sat at the table by the window and unfurled the top parchment. It was addressed formally to him as First Minister, and contained Athos' usual detailed but succinct report of the recent battles, injuries and losses of the Musketeer regiment. Scanning it quickly Tréville set it aside to read in detail later, turning to the second letter.

This was addressed informally and Tréville settled to read it carefully, hoping this would give him some answers.

 _"Dear friend,_

 _I have sent d'Artagnan to you in the hope that time away from here will help him to recover._

 _I reported to you last week that he was freed from his captivity by the Spanish, safe in Etienne's hands, and expected to recover after our first day of anxiety due to his extreme dehydration. Physically his wounds are healing although he is far from battle-fit. However his mental state is fragile and seems to be deteriorating as he becomes more mobile and alert, and we have struggled to make him feel safe._

 _He barely speaks and has been unable to tell us what he experienced. If pressed – or when faced with a situation he cannot cope with – he will retreat either into silence or physically remove himself from camp. Such situations include anything where a response is expected of him, even innocent enquiries from friends asking after his health. He cannot enter the mess tent, and struggles to retain what little food he eats. Etienne says this could be a result of the starvation he endured in his five weeks of captivity, but instinct tells us it is more than this._

 _In camp he seems to find most peace when working with the horses. When he is able to leave camp he goes to a nearby lake and immerses himself. He would float for hours if we did not haul him out before he freezes. He sleeps little and wakes frequently from nightmares. He is unable to cope with any but the simplest of questions, and we have learned the best way to communicate is to suggest one option rather than ask him to decide, thus "I expect you would like some bread" rather than "what would you like to eat?" I give this as an illustration of his incapacity to function normally and because it has taken us days to reach this understanding of how best to handle him._

 _Old friend, I fear for his sanity, and now for his safety. Yesterday morning I was forced against my judgement to include him in our number when the Musketeer regiment combined with the joint armies in a disastrous encounter with the Spanish. As you see, he is nowhere near strong enough to fight, so I kept him by me as a messenger, but when Porthos was injured he threw himself into the fray without thought for his own safety or survival, only that of Porthos. Porthos described him as "running amok" and admits that he was frightened by his intensity. I believe this battle-frenzy is related to his captivity, because I have never seen it in him before. He was formidable, and rescued Porthos along with another dozen men who were surrounded after Spanish trickery, but at such a cost to himself that he collapsed and had to be carried back to camp, after which he slept for an entire day and night._

 _The pressure on our armies is such that I expect I will be forced to include him in our fighting number again, and I fear that he will not survive long. He desperately needs time, and help, if he is to find his way back to us._

 _I entreat you to seek the assistance that he needs, perhaps from an expert in battle-weariness if such a man can be found in Paris at this time. Failing that, I hope that time away from all that stresses him may at least be of benefit._

 _One more thing, which I should have mentioned at the start: he was not keen to return to Paris, and particularly insistent that he did not want Constance to know he is here. I hope he will have told you this already, unless he changes his opinion when he reaches Paris, but the prospect appears to terrify him._

 _I hesitate to add to your own burdens at this time, but I know you will understand my reasons for sending him to you and I hope you can help him, for I am at a loss._

 _Yours always, Athos."_

Tréville finished reading and closed his eyes, aware that his heart had sunk with each sentence.

Looking up he found d'Artagnan had not moved from his position, seated on the edge of the bed with his hands twisted between his knees. He took a moment to observe him properly for the first time, seeing the torn, scarred skin around his left eye, the purple shadows under both eyes, the hint of swollen flesh and fading bruises on his jaw. His fingers were wrapped tightly with grubby strips of bandage, and he could see more bandages protruding from his shirt cuffs, doubtless encircling wrists which must have been battered from being bound during his captivity. Beyond that, Tréville could see no obvious injuries but he had no doubt there were more.

Realising they had sat in silence for long enough, he stood decisively, then quickly slowed his movement as he saw d'Artagnan flinch at the sudden movement. Speaking gently and clearly, and remembering the advice in Athos' letter, he told the Gascon "I'm going out for a while but I will be back. I expect you are hungry?"

d'Artagnan raised his eyes to Tréville's and shook his head, slowly.

"Well, stay here until I return. Do you understand?"

A nod, then he dropped his eyes back to his fingers and started rubbing at them.

"d'Artagnan are you in pain? Shall I fetch a medic? Have your injuries been treated properly?" Forgetting himself in his sudden concern, he saw a look of panic flash across d'Artagnan's gaunt features. Too many questions.

"Sorry, my friend. Are you in pain?"

A hesitation but no answer. He was beginning to see what Athos meant about it being a slow process.

"Would you like a doctor to look at your wounds?"

A definite shake of the head at that. Tréville hesitated, wishing he knew what injuries he was hiding, but decided he had to respect d'Artagnan's wishes. He'd got here on his own from the front – in record time, it dawned on him as he remembered that the date on Athos' letter was only 3 days earlier; he must have travelled 12 or 14 hours a day – so surely he could not be too injured.

He would have to be content with that hope for now. First things first: he needed to find the name of a physician in Paris who might have the necessary skills and experience to help d'Artagnan.

* * *

He was in luck. His message to the Palace, scribbled in haste before returning to the garrison for morning muster (deftly sidestepping Constance's question about his tardiness, and her sharp scrutiny at his prevarication – very little escaped her notice!) elicited a quick reply from the palace physician, who recommended a friend recently arrived in Paris from Flanders where he had been working with war wounded on that front. The palace physician promised to find him and send him to the inn Tréville had named.

Uneasy about leaving d'Artagnan alone, Tréville returned to _Le Cochon Volant_ as soon as he was able to discharge his responsibilities at the Garrison. Thus it was, a few hours later, that the expert, a Monsieur Lemoine – found him in the common room picking at a meat dish that deserved better attention.

After a quick explanation of the problem, Lemoine asked to read the letter Tréville had referred to, then sat quietly for a moment before agreeing that his skills might be of benefit to the Musketeer in question. He gladly answered Tréville's questions about his experience and explained the limits of his time – he would be leaving Paris in the morning so could only help with an assessment, rather than commit to his ongoing treatment – and the two men quickly reached an accord.

Tréville took him to d'Artagnan's room on the first floor. As far as he could tell, the lad had not moved at all since he first entered the room. He hesitated, wondering if he should explain this, and whether he should stay, but Lemoine touched his hand and nodded, so Tréville shut the door and stood on the landing outside, straining his ears for reassurance that he was doing the right thing, entrusting his vulnerable Musketeer to a complete stranger about whom he knew nothing other than the Palace's recommendation.

At first there was a silence, and then Lemoine's voice in a long soliloquy. Tréville found himself relaxing a little at the gentle cadence of the warm tenor tones. Another pause, and then something that was clearly a question. Tréville held his breath. Eventually there came a slow, faltering response from d'Artagnan and he closed his eyes in relief. He could hear none of the words themselves, but the tone suggested the physician had established some kind of rapport, and d'Artagnan was at least responding.

After two hours of gentle questioning had met with frequent silences but also many uncertain answers, Lemoine emerged looking slightly weary. Indicating the stairs with his head, he closed the door gently behind him and the two men descended to the common room where Tréville, with some relief, ordered a bottle of wine.

Settling in a discreet corner, for the common room was filling up at this early evening hour, Tréville waited respectfully until the physician had assembled his thoughts.

"You were right to call me: he is deeply troubled."

 _Merde_. Not the start he'd been hoping for. Lemoine's lips twitched as if he could read Tréville's mind.

"There is hope; he is young and his Captain has had the excellent good sense to send him away from the source of his anxiety in good time. Tell me, what was his character before this episode?"

Tréville didn't need to think; d'Artagnan's character was evident to everyone he met. Had been evident. "He is – was – full of life, always cheerful; fiercely loyal; he could never hide his emotions and often acted impulsively, but always for good reason, never frivolously. He has a strong sense of morality and justice and would fight without thought of his own safety if those he loves were in danger..." Lemoine was nodding as Tréville stopped. "Is this helpful?"

"To me, yes. To d'Artagnan – I don't know. Such a nature can help a man recover but it can also be harder for him if he has never had to contend with depressive thoughts before, since he will have no defences prepared." He paused for thought. "What are your plans for him, Minister? Presumably he is still a serving soldier so must return at some point, unless you decommission him?"

Tréville hadn't thought this far. "Would you recommend decommissioning?"

Lemoine considered. "No, not at this stage. It may be that soldiering, or the familiarity of the Musketeer way of life, is all that is holding him together at the moment, although it might become necessary if he does not recover. For now, I have some thoughts I can impart if you wish?"

Tréville nodded, grateful for any advice. He felt out of his depths here. This situation reminded him of Aramis, when he'd been brought home from the massacre at Savoy and had taken weeks to recover – if he ever had, fully. The thought that d'Artagnan might be suffering a similar response to trauma was unsettling and deeply concerning.

"He needs rest and time, of course. His body is physically damaged and you should ensure he is given any further treatment he needs. However his mental state is a bigger concern. He is clearly under immense strain. He needs to talk about his experience but that process cannot be rushed. My advice would be to find him someone he trusts, with the time to wait until he is ready. Meanwhile he needs to be somewhere calm, which will give him no reminders of what he has been through, if such a place exists."

Tréville looked at him, heart racing as he realised he knew of just such a place. "This person of trust; does it need to be someone with experience of this condition?"

"Ideally, but not necessarily. They need the confidence to wait, not push. Experience might help, but open-mindedness and mutual trust is more important."

Tréville contemplated his options, but had no other ideas. Normally he would have entrusted something like this to Constance, but clearly she was too close to the problem – or possibly part of the problem herself, judging from d'Artagnan's reaction. No, he would take d'Artagnan to Douai, and hope that Aramis – and the Abbé – would be prepared to take d'Artagnan on.

* * *

They left the following morning. Tréville could not be sure the Abbé would give permission for Aramis to spend time with d'Artagnan, so he travelled with him to make the appeal in person.

d'Artagnan looked even more exhausted, if that were possible, and it seemed he had slept little, if at all. Prolonged lack of sleep carried its own problems, Tréville knew, and he wasn't sure how much more d'Artagnan could cope with. He could only hope that Douai would start to give him some solutions.

They reached the imposing stone Abbey, perched high on its rock overlooking the valley below, in good time. d'Artagnan showed little interest in where they were going – in fact would not have asked, Tréville suspected, if he had not already been told. Tréville had not mentioned Aramis, in case the Abbé refused to give him permission to see d'Artagnan, and he had no idea if d'Artagnan had taken in where they were going. But he showed no surprise when they drew rein at the Abbey's solid wooden doors, nor when Tréville explained to the gatekeeper that he had come to petition the Abbé for sanctuary for his companion.

They dismounted in the courtyard and waited for a response to Tréville's request. Several brothers crossed the courtyard, looking at the visitors with smiles but little curiosity, and then one achingly familiar figure appeared, wearing the blue gown of a novitiate as opposed to the white robes of the brothers. Carrying a basket of produce he started to cross the courtyard, glanced idly across at the men standing by the horses, then uttered a cry of astonishment, dropped his basket, hitched up his robes and flew across the courtyard towards them.

Tréville caught the fleeting look of alarm cross d'Artagnan's features and stepped smoothly forward, his arms outstretched in welcome, making sure that Aramis encountered him first. They met in a flurry of arms, laughter, back slaps and questions from Aramis, but as he looked over Tréville's shoulder he stilled, pulling back from Tréville in consternation.

Tréville nodded, quickly whispering "You see the reason for our visit – tread softly," before stepping aside to allow Aramis to see d'Artagnan properly. Aramis dropped his arms, a look of deep concern flashing across his features, before closing the gap to d'Artagnan and raising his arms slowly in a gesture of welcome.

"My brother, you don't know how good it is to see you," he said, softly. There was a tiny hesitation, then d'Artagnan took one step forward and accepted the hug, leaning into Aramis' chest and closing his eyes as Aramis enveloped him carefully, as if frightened of breaking him. Tréville felt his throat constrict as he watched the two men coming together for the first time in two years, sweeping aside the gulf of the war, the vows Aramis was taking, and everything else that had separated them.

d'Artagnan didn't hug Aramis back – his arms stayed by his side – but after a moment Tréville saw Aramis adjust his stance slightly and knew the Gascon must be leaning on him in total trust. Aramis simply held him, not speaking, not moving, just synchronising his breathing to his brother's. He seemed to know, with no other information than Tréville's brief whisper, that he was holding a damaged soul in his arms.

The arrival of the Abbé, all smiles and propriety, broke the two apart and Aramis cleared his throat and wiped a hand quickly over his face, before standing to the side in respectful obedience to his superior. The Abbé gave him a sharp look as Tréville announced himself, clearly having not immediately made the connection between Tréville's uniform and Aramis' former occupation.

Aramis was careful to look neutral as Tréville explained briefly why they had come, but the Abbé looked concerned, and took Tréville to one side.

"Brother Aramis has not progressed as quickly as we had hoped," he explained in a loud whisper that was hardly subtle. Tréville felt embarrassed for him, but quickly realised this was not news to Aramis. "He struggles with the concept of obedience and the subjugation of his will to the holy orders," continued the Abbé. "He has not yet taken his vows, and I cannot allow him contact with the world he has renounced, for fear it will set him back in his quest for acceptance to God's work through the Benedictine rule."

Tréville winced. It seemed the Abbé was having as much trouble with Aramis as he himself had encountered through his many years as Aramis' senior officer.

"I appreciate your concerns, Abbé," he said respectfully. "But I have to tell you that d'Artagnan is in no condition to entice Aramis from his path here. He is barely able to communicate at the moment, and will certainly not be reminding Aramis of the pleasanter aspects of life with the Musketeers."

The Abbé looked unconvinced and pursed his lips, ready to object further, so Tréville hurried on. "At the very least, I would beg of you to offer him sanctuary for a few days. Even without Aramis' counsel, the tranquillity of this setting will, I am sure, be extremely beneficial for him." And Aramis would surely do the rest, he thought to himself, once d'Artagnan was accepted within the walls of the monastery.

The Abbé was wavering so Tréville played his final card. "The Musketeer Garrison will, of course, contribute towards his keep, handsomely." And then, to make sure there were no gaps through which the Abbé could wriggle: "Of course I know that would not be a factor in your decision, but the income will I am sure be useful for your work in the surrounding parishes."

He maintained calm eye contact with the Abbé and was careful not to show his relief when he saw the moment of capitulation. Similarly Aramis managed to school his features into impassivity but Tréville could see his eyes dancing as the negotiations began for a suitable contribution to the work of the Abbey.

As Tréville rode away, he found himself saying a small but heartfelt prayer that the next time he saw d'Artagnan, the young musketeer would have that same sparkle in his eye, but he feared it would be a difficult challenge for both Aramis and d'Artagnan.

* * *

 _Cochon Volant_ = Flying Pig. I was feeling frivolous when naming it, but I am sure they had these in 17th century France.


	11. Chapter 11: Song for the Heartsick II

_As promised, next chapter was ready and I thought it might be a good one for a Sunday, so here it is. A bit of much needed respite and comfort coming up in the peace of Douai!_

 **Chapter Eleven: Song for the Heartsick Part II**

Aramis led d'Artagnan towards a quiet corridor which housed the guest rooms of the Abbey. He had already lodged d'Artagnan's weapons with the gatekeeper, as they had no place in this holy sanctuary. d'Artagnan was left carrying his saddlebags which, when they arrived at the appointed room, he stood holding uselessly in his hands until Aramis took them from him and placed them on the only chair in the room.

Tréville had taken Aramis to one side before leaving, having secured the Abbé's cautious permission for Aramis to spend time with d'Artagnan and away from his normal duties. He quickly briefed the former marksman on what he knew of d'Artagnan's situation, and explained the advice given by both Athos and the physician on how to handle him, particularly on how to coax him to speak by giving him choices and making him feel in control. Aramis' naturally cheerful expression had faded, to be replaced with shock at the news of d'Artagnan's prolonged captivity by the Spanish, and then anger at the implication of his poor treatment and subsequent difficulties.

Now he stood looking at the young Gascon who seemed almost a stranger at this moment, and began to realise the enormity of his task. d'Artagnan had not spoken at all since their arrival, and showed no signs of doing so now. Gone was his natural ebullience, the sunny disposition that had gladdened Aramis' heart so many times when in difficult situations. In his place was a parody of his former self; a hollow, fragile, expressionless man.

What did they do to you, he wondered... and how would he help d'Artagnan to heal?

A starting point would be to check any physical injuries. Tréville had said it was nine or ten days since Porthos and Athos had rescued him, and presumably any injuries had been treated, but apparently he'd been in a battle since then, although it was hard to imagine how he would lift a sword at the moment let alone wield one in anger. He'd been shocked at how thin the Gascon's frame was, when they'd hugged in the courtyard.

Step by step, he told himself sternly.

"The first thing, d'Artagnan, is for you to wash the travel dust off. I will organise a bath and be back in a few minutes. Why don't you unpack your things while I'm gone?"

He was relieved to see d'Artagnan nod at this suggestion.

Hurrying to the washroom at the end of the guest corridor, he found Brother Michel, the monk in charge of visitors to the Abbey, who had been appraised of their guest's arrival and was already busy filling the tin bath from pails of steaming water brought by a couple of younger novitiates. Smiling his thanks, Aramis returned to d'Artagnan to find him staring into his saddlebag. Eyebrows creasing, Aramis moved to his side to see what he was looking at. He saw nothing unusual – in fact there was almost nothing in there: just his travel blanket, a water bottle, a pouch containing his flint and steel, a whetstone, and a small bag which Aramis recognised as the one he'd given d'Artagnan several years ago, containing basic medical supplies – needles, thread, bandages and a healing cream, although that was no doubt long used up.

Looking at d'Artagnan, he saw the Gascon was twisting something in his hands. Cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal that might startle at any moment, he reached out a hand in invitation. After a moment, d'Artagnan sighed and placed the item into his palm. It was a roughly carved wooden cross.

"This is good work," Aramis said, examining it. "Did you make it?" d'Artagnan's face creased with some emotion and he shook his head.

Aramis went to return the cross to d'Artagnan but he pushed Aramis' hand away. Raising a brow, Aramis waited. And was rewarded, eventually, by a soft whisper. "He made it for you. We told him about you."

When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Aramis asked carefully: "Who, d'Artagnan? Who made it?"

But d'Artagnan shook his head, moving suddenly to the bed and sitting down as if exhausted by speaking. Aramis hesitated, looking from him to the cross, but then smiled, and put it carefully into the pocket of his gown. "Then I am grateful, and will treasure it."

It seemed to be the right thing to say, and d'Artagnan nodded. Aramis decided now was not the right time to explain that, under the Benedictine rule, monks were not allowed to accept gifts without the Abbot's permission. He would speak to the Abbé later. Right now he did not want to do anything to jeopardise the Abbé's agreement to place their guest under Aramis' care.*

Aramis led d'Artagnan to the wash room and held the door open as d'Artagnan went slowly in then looked around as if he had no idea what to do there. Sighing, Aramis followed him in and walked to a shelf on the wall, picked out a new block of soap and held it out. d'Artagnan took it without comment, but then stood holding it helplessly.

"Shall I help you?" Aramis offered, quietly. Then watched, horrified, as a tear trickled down d'Artagnan's cheek. Feeling close to tears himself, Aramis took a deep breath. It would not help d'Artagnan if he let his emotions run away with him.

"Right, let's get this doublet off first," he told d'Artagnan, matching actions to words and beginning a running commentary on what he was doing.

He helped him into the bath, struggling to keep his face calm as the extent of the Gascon's injuries was slowly revealed. The bandages on his wrists turned out to extend far up his forearms and looked so stained that he did not attempt to unwind them, simply telling d'Artagnan to let them soak off. There was a cleaner bandage around his upper chest which was also stained with blood in a narrow line across his back; that one came off easily in the water, revealing a sticky shallow cut, clearly fresh, that ran diagonally between his shoulder blades.

"When did this happen, d'Artagnan?" he asked, seeing that it had been stitched a little inexpertly, and was more recent than the other injuries he'd seen so far. d'Artagnan shook his head, either because he didn't know, or didn't want to answer. Perhaps both.

There was evidence of extensive bruising on his upper body, but most had started to fade, leaving ugly yellow stains under his skin. More surprising were the cuts criss-crossing his back and ribs, reminiscent of injuries from a sword, but so numerous and carefully spaced that they had to have been done by design. Most of these had started to heal but the deeper ones were still raw and oozing although they appeared to have been cleaned. When he eased the bandages from d'Artagnan's arms and wrists, he found more lacerations – some deep, some shallow – criss-crossing his forearms. They had clearly been done deliberately, and over a period of time. These too had been cleaned but not stitched and again many showed signs of infection, still oozing pus and blood. Aramis swore, softly, then hastily apologised to God and the Abbé, glad no one could hear him.

The water in the bath was already clouded with grime and a scum of dried blood and skin, so Aramis postponed any further inspection and offered d'Artagnan the soap. "Your hair needs a wash – shall I do it for you?" d'Artagnan was sitting upright in the bath, but his head was bowed and with his long hair covering his eyes Aramis couldn't see his expression. He gave no sign of having heard the question but Aramis could see the tension radiating from his taut muscles. He tried again. "I'm going to wash your hair d'Artagnan."

He thought back to Savoy and how Porthos had handled him. At the beginning Porthos had been the only one who could get through to him: how had he done it? His memories of the first few days back in the garrison were hazy but he had a suspicion that he'd not been very talkative, himself. He chuckled; Porthos would be poking him now for such an understatement.

Suddenly he noticed d'Artagnan had raised his head a little and was looking at him silently, a question in his eyes. "What?" he asked. "Why did I chuckle?" He watched carefully and thought the dark eyes flickered. "I was thinking of Porthos – and me, after Savoy." He hesitated, seeing d'Artagnan's head drop again. This was so hard! He had nothing to go on other than his knowledge of d'Artagnan before the war, which felt like a lifetime ago.

His hands hovered over the filthy hair, desperate to do something: to start washing, cleaning, stitching, soothing. Healing.

"I wasn't very talkative then, either. I was trying to remember if Porthos bothered asking me what I wanted, or just got on with it." d'Artagnan shifted slightly in the cooling water and began picking at one of the bandages around his fingers. "I seem to remember he just told me what he was going to do, and that I didn't have much say in it." d'Artagnan's hands stilled again and Aramis knew he was listening. He hesitated, wondering if he was rushing things. d'Artagnan was already naked and vulnerable. Was he, Aramis, simply steering him the way he wanted him to go? He remembered the physician's advice, imparted by Tréville, to allow d'Artagnan to make his own choices. "But you're not me, are you? And you were held captive, for a long time. So perhaps you need to be in control, now, to make your own decisions. Is that what you want?"

He forced himself to stop babbling and wait. What if d'Artagnan didn't answer? What would he do then – would he be able to respect d'Artagnan's choice to remain silent? With his desperate desire to help d'Artagnan, would he be able to stand back and let his injured friend climb out now, if that's what he wanted, with his hair still matted and stinking, his cuts unwashed and untended?

d'Artagnan finally raised his head again, and Aramis saw tears glistening in those expressive eyes. "I don't know ... what I want," he whispered. And Aramis saw the truth in his eyes. He was exhausted. Spent. He'd used all his energy surviving, not just in captivity but since then. He had nothing left. Nothing at all.

Nodding slowly, to himself as much as d'Artagnan, Aramis gave him a tender smile. "In that case, my friend, I think I'd better make some decisions for you, just for a day or two. And the first one is to wash your hair and get you out of this water, before it chills us both."

d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment and let out a shuddering breath. Aramis could not yet interpret this new, silent man with any confidence, but his instinct told him that the Gascon was relieved.

Understanding flooded through him, like golden sunlight showering into a room when you draw back the drapes. Maybe it wasn't the done thing to give advice to a victim about what he should do, or feel. But when you are hanging on by a thread, it's exhausting to be asked constantly what you want, and watched continually for your reactions. d'Artagnan needed someone to understand what he needed, even when he didn't know himself, and just do it, quietly and without fuss. With a silent prayer of thanks for his enlightenment, Aramis was beginning to understand why Tréville had sent d'Artagnan to him.

* * *

An hour later, d'Artagnan was lying face down on his bed, his nakedness covered by a towel, and his head turned to the wall. Aramis had washed the worst of the grime from his body and helped him to dry himself before leading him back to the room where, he discovered, Brother Michael had set the fire in the hearth and put a jug of water and goblets on the table.

Aramis had left d'Artagnan and hurried to collect medical supplies from the infirmary. When he'd first arrived at the monastery his offer to provide medical aid to the monks had been declined, firmly, by the Abbé who was determined that Aramis should leave all reminders of his former life behind. But after one of the novices had burned himself badly in the kitchens, Aramis had proven himself so useful in the lad's recovery that the Abbé had given him leave to assist Brother Claude, who ran the infirmary. Fortunately there was little need here for Aramis' field surgeon skills, but his knowledge of the healing herbs proved useful, and led to another outlet for his energy when he volunteered to work in the gardens. Brother Claude had been delighted to find another enthusiast and the two men spent many evenings together swopping recipes and replenishing their stocks of healing balms and ointments.

Now he was glad of their hard work, for d'Artagnan would need plenty. Looking at the Gascon's body was like looking at a complex tapestry woven from pain and suffering, and he hardly knew where to start. "One step..." he reminded himself again, and picked up a fine cloth to begin abrading the dead skin from the infected wounds.

It was a messy, unpleasant experience for both of them but it had to be done if his skin was to heal without ugly scarring. d'Artagnan's fists dug deep into the sheet with which Aramis had covered the bed to protect it, but he bore the treatment in silence, for the most part. If Aramis pushed too deeply into a cut, or worked in one place for too long, he could feel d'Artagnan's breathing hitch and the tension in his muscles climb to the point where he feared for the Gascon's palms, so tightly were they clenched; so he learned to vary his attentions and return, if necessary, to the most infected wounds after a rest.

He was particularly sickened by what he found when he unwound the bandages from d'Artagnan's fingers. The soaked cloth came away easily enough but revealed skin deeply gouged, the nails in many places missing or torn, the fingers misshapen by swelling or possibly hidden fractures. Aramis closed his eyes for a second, then set himself to clean the mangled skin with a calmness he didn't feel.

As each cut or welt was cleaned Aramis worked a healing ointment into d'Artagnan's skin, a distillation of calendula oil, yarrow, comfrey and juniper berries. As well as aiding healing and helping to prevent infection by sealing the wounds from the air, the ointment was also soothing and he could feel the Gascon's tension slowly fading under his hands as he worked it gently into his skin. Eventually, putting his cloth aside, he took a different ointment – one containing arnica root, which was useful in healing bruising of the skin and muscles – and massaged it gently into d'Artagnan's scarred forearms and back, moving to include his whole back, even the un-bruised areas. Eventually he was rewarded with the sound of slow, even breaths as the Gascon drifted into sleep.

That had not been his intention – he had hoped to get some food into him before he rested – but Aramis was loathe to disturb him so he rose and packed his supplies away quietly. Stretching, he realised it was already getting dark and must be well past the hour of Vespers.

He lit some candles and left d'Artagnan's door open, hurrying to the dormitory he shared with seven others. Sure enough it was empty. Washing his hands and smoothing his gown hastily, he raced down the night stairs that gave directly into the chapel, where soft lights and chanting indicated that Compline had already begun. It was not the first time Aramis had been late for a service so he knew the best route from stairwell to pew that would keep the maximum number of columns between him and the watchful eye of the Abbé, and he managed to take his place without obvious observation from any of those leading the prayers. Standing and kneeling automatically in the appointed places, he allowed the familiar Latin phrases to sooth his racing mind.

Compline had always been one of his favourite offices and he cherished the sense of peace it brought him now. Around him, the brothers began the words of Psalm 91 and Aramis joined them thinking, as he had every night since he'd arrived here, of his brothers far away at the front. The words seemed to perfectly express his hopes for their safety and, regardless of his brothers' personal beliefs, he was sure that God would hear his prayer, for these men were worthy of His protection.

 _He who lives under the protection of the Most High dwells under the shade of the Almighty._

 _He will say to the Lord: "You are my shelter and my strength, my God, in whom I trust."_

 _For he will free you from the hunter's snare, from the voice of the slanderer._

 _He will shade you with his wings, you will hide underneath his wings._

 _His faithfulness will be your armour and your shield._

 _You will not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day;_

 _nor the plague that walks in the shadows, nor the death that lays waste at noon._

As usual he could not say the next words without feeling first a surge of protectiveness towards his brothers on the battlefield, and then a wash of guilt at the idea that he would prefer any number of others to fall, rather than one of the three men most precious to him:

 _A thousand will fall at your side, at your right hand ten thousand will fall,_

 _but you it will never come near._

 _You will look with your eyes and see the reward of sinners._

 _For the Lord is your shelter and refuge; you have made the Most High your dwelling-place._

At the start of the next verse he sighed, again as usual, and reminded himself that he was not qualified to reconcile the contradictions between faith and those that fought to protect that faith. His job was to carry out God's work and let the Almighty worry about judging who represents evil on this earth.

 _Evil will not reach you, harm cannot approach your tent;_

 _for he has set his angels to guard you and keep you safe in all your ways._

 _They will carry you in their arms in case you hurt your foot on a stone..._

He smiled at the image of an angel trying to carry Porthos over a field of stones, humour as always rescuing him from his deepest fears.

In particular tonight, the words spoken at the beginning and end of the psalm resonated with Aramis:

 _He will conceal you with his wings; you will not fear the terror of the night_.

And then the Canticle: _Save us, Lord, while we are awake; protect us while we sleep; that we may keep watch with Christ and rest with him in peace._

As the service drew to its familiar close (" _God our Father, as we have celebrated today the mystery of the Lord's resurrection, grant our humble prayer: free us from all harm that we may sleep in peace and rise in joy to sing your praise. Through Christ our Lord,_ _Amen")*_ he realised how appropriate those words were, too. How he hoped that d'Artagnan would be granted protection while he slept, and allowed to rest in peace here.

* * *

Before retiring, he returned to the guest quarters and found d'Artagnan still sleeping in the same position. He stoked the fire and retrieved a blanket from the adjoining cell, placing it gently over the bony shoulders to ward off the chill night air, and walked to his own bed full of optimism, the words at the end of the Psalm still ringing in his ears.

At midnight however, as he detoured again to the guest quarters before the office of Matins, Aramis' worries returned in force when he found the door to d'Artagnan's room wide open and no sign of its occupant. Scanning the sparse room quickly he could see nothing out of place and supposed that d'Artagnan had risen to relieve himself, but when he checked the wash room it was also empty. Frowning, he stepped back into the corridor and noticed immediately that the outer door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Following his instincts, he stepped through and followed the narrow path between the wall of the guest wing and the outer perimeter wall.

At the corner the path opened into the kitchen gardens which were bathed in moonlight. They looked deserted but as he hurried around the familiar paths, he noticed a shape huddled near the lavender bed, grown to sweeten the odours of some of the more unpleasant ointments in the infirmary. Slowing his steps, he approached cautiously, seeing to his relief that it was indeed the Gascon.

He sat with his back to a pear tree, his head resting on the arms that cradled his knees. He had pulled on his braes but was bare-chested and shivered in the cold night air.

As the chapel bell began to toll the midnight hour, d'Artagnan's head shot up in alarm and, seeing someone approaching, he stumbled quickly to his feet.

"Peace, brother. I found your bed empty and followed your path." Once again, he kept his words simple and was rewarded with a quiet "Aramis?" from the Gascon. When he nodded, d'Artagnan's body seemed to sag with relief as he exhaled.

Aramis hesitated, full of questions, but settled for a gentle touch on his arm to invite him to walk. It was light enough to see the plants and they could certainly smell their fragrance as they moved around the paths, so Aramis began to describe what they grew and how he used it in the infirmary.

When they reached the lavender beds again, d'Artagnan stopped and inhaled, then volunteered unexpectedly: "My mother used to grow it to scent our bedclothes."

Aramis nodded but d'Artagnan's mind was clearly far away as he ran his fingers lightly across the nodding purple flower heads. Aramis asked if he wanted to walk further, but stopped as he saw, with dismay, tears glistening on the Gascon's dark features. Wondering again how he could possibly help someone dealing with so much hurt and pain, he could only offer a touch on the arm as they turned back towards the abbey walls.

Inside, Aramis put more logs on the fire and poured d'Artagnan some water. Sitting beside him while he drank, he was content just to sit with his brother, hoping his presence would bring him some comfort, and for a while they sat in companionable silence.

"I couldn't remember where I was," confessed d'Artagnan suddenly.

Aramis held his peace. Along with the comment about the lavender, this was the first time d'Artagnan had initiated a conversation. d'Artagnan was staring at his fingers, which Aramis had smothered in the healing cream then wrapped tenderly in fresh bandages, strapping the misshapen third and fourth fingers of his left hand together to limit their movement while the bones healed.

"When I sleep, I see the walls of the hole they put us in," he said quietly. "I can smell the body; hear the rats ... feel them gnawing on my fingers."

Aramis thought for a moment he'd misheard, but the way d'Artagnan was staring at his fingers, and constantly fiddled with the bandages covering them, suddenly made dreadful sense. By all that was holy, no wonder they were in such a mess!

It took several hours for d'Artagnan to describe, haltingly and with frequent long pauses, the conditions in which Athos and Porthos had found him. Eventually d'Artagnan looked so exhausted that Aramis told him firmly to try to sleep some more, and he himself, having missed not just Matins but also the morning office of Lauds*, borrowed another blanket from an adjoining room, and settled in the chair by the fire to doze.

d'Artagnan fell asleep in moments, but after an hour or so Aramis heard him mumbling, then start to thrash around on the bed. Aramis was by his side in a flash, catching his flailing arms before he could hurt himself, and soothed him with his voice until the dark eyes finally blinked open and he started up at Aramis, looking dazed.

"You're alright, d'Artagnan. You're safe here."

d'Artagnan listened, dark eyes inscrutable, as Aramis spoke, his soft voice mesmerizing, then nodded, and pushed to his feet. He swayed for a moment but as Aramis reached for him, he shook his head and moved unsteadily towards the fire, sinking to settle by its warmth.

* * *

"That started a bit of a pattern, didn't it, d'Artagnan?" Aramis sought every opportunity to include d'Artagnan as he recounted that first day at the monastery. "You'd sleep a bit, then you would wake and we would talk, then sleep a bit more. But never for long, those first nights."

"That must have been exhausting for both of you," commented Porthos, reaching back to the bread on the table and breaking off a piece to chew, idly, as he listened.

Aramis smiled. "I was used to it by then. The offices are every three hours, so the most sleep we got in one stretch was a couple of hours. Although I often snoozed my way through Lauds, to be honest. I got very good at mouthing the words in my sleep."

Porthos smiled at the image this gave him, but they were all aware of the tension rising from d'Artagnan. It felt like he was gearing himself up for a new revelation; he was restless, and kept looking around as if assessing them all.

Eventually Athos leaned forwards, hoping a direct question might help him talk, if indeed he had more to say. He touched his hand tentatively. "d'Artagnan, I have long wanted to know but hesitated to ask. Will you tell us what happened to LeVente?"

To his surprise, d'Artagnan looked almost relieved, and nodded his agreement. "It's time I told you how he died. I should have talked to you properly at the time."

Athos leaned back, assessing the Gascon. "You weren't in any fit state when we first rescued you, and when you got back from Paris, things had turned a little... hectic. We were just glad to see you back, and took a lead from you, and you made it clear it was all dealt with."

d'Artagnan smiled, a little ruefully. "So I thought," he said, almost to himself. He took a sip of wine, and Constance saw that his hand was shaking.

She looked pleadingly at Aramis, who tipped his head then said gently to d'Artagnan: "Would you like me to start?"

"You know this part?" Porthos asked, this time without rancour.

"It took him a while to open up, after that first night. For the next few days I tried to let him be, tried to help him sleep and heal, physically. But eventually, it was the next thing he explained." He looked at d'Artagnan who nodded but seemed content to let Aramis speak, so he carried on.

After that first night, Aramis made up a bed on the floor of the guest room, and learned to wake d'Artagnan at the first sign of unrest. A light touch was all it took, and after a few early hiccups (d'Artagnan flinging himself off the bed and knocking Aramis to the ground was a particularly painful memory for Aramis) d'Artagnan seemed to relax enough that he would barely open his eyes to acknowledge Aramis before turning and resettling himself.

In spite of this pattern of interrupted sleep, after a few nights like this Aramis could already see the difference in him. The drawn, pinched look was smoothing out and he began to look less like a walking corpse. The haunted look in his eyes, however, seemed to burn more fiercely as his face and body healed.

They took meals with the brothers but, in the Benedictine tradition, guests were not to communicate with the rest of the community except by special permission so d'Artagnan, and Aramis as his appointed protector during his stay, sat at the end of the long refectory table, slightly separated from the others. The two daily mails were simple fare, mainly vegetable based with the addition of some chicken or fish at times.

At his first meal d'Artagnan ate only bread and wine. But at the second, after a day spent resting, having his wounds re-cleaned and redressed, and walking in the gardens, he was presented with a bowl of a rich-smelling meaty stew, by a proud-looking Brother Fournier who was in charge of the kitchens. Meat was normally absent from the table and only served to those who were sick: clearly Brother Fournier felt d'Artagnan needed feeding up. He placed it with a flourish in front of d'Artagnan, who simply stared at it without speaking, and it was left to Aramis to thank the red-faced brother with a smile and a small bow.

Talking at mealtimes was frowned upon as it distracted from the readings which the brothers took turn to intone. d'Artagnan had no trouble keeping silence at the moment, but now it was a frustration to Aramis who watched his hand hover over his spoon then return to his lap repeatedly. At the far end of the table he was aware of Brother Fournier watching, at first in anticipation and then with a frown, as the precious meat stew slowly cooled in the bowl. Eventually d'Artagnan did retrieve the spoon, which then hovered over the bowl for an equally long time before he finally took a tiny scoop of the liquid surrounding the meat and vegetables, and raised it to his lips. Aramis realised he was holding his breath without any notion why, other than the discomfort d'Artagnan clearly displayed about eating this meal.

He swallowed the spoon's contents. At the far end of the table Brother Fournier relaxed with a contented smile, which immediately turned to consternation and shock as d'Artagnan suddenly pushed himself away from the table with a clatter and ran full pelt from the room with one hand clamped to his mouth.

A hush fell on the refectory as the reader looked up from his bible with a puzzled frown, and all eyes turned to the end of the table. Aramis rose to his feet with studied calm, bowed an apology to the room and followed d'Artagnan with measured steps until he reached the door and ducked out of sight of the watchful eyes, at which point he hitched up his robes and broke into a run, heading for the open door leading into the main courtyard. Here, as he anticipated, he found d'Artagnan bent double, retching a thin dribble of bile into a dusty corner.

When d'Artagnan straightened, he turned and found Aramis waiting close beside him. Regarding him with a bleak expression he managed a quiet "sorry". Aramis shook his head, crossly. "Nothing to be sorry about, you daft Gascon. Come on, let's get you inside."

Back in his room, d'Artagnan resisted being steered to the bed again, heading instead for the fire. Crouching beside it, he piled some more logs on then accepted a cup of water from Aramis.

"What was that about?"

d'Artagnan just shook his head. He couldn't begin to explain how his body was reacting. But Aramis was adept at reading the signals and, remembering what d'Artagnan had told him about the conditions in which he had been left to die in the Spanish oubliette, he crouched beside the Gascon and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Was it the meat?"

A hesitant nod.

"The smell, or the thought of eating it?"

"Both, I think."

Aramis nodded then said calmly: "Good. Now we know we can avoid it: it's rare here anyway and was meant as a treat for you but I will explain to Brother Fournier. He will understand."

d'Artagnan suddenly shook his head, pushing himself to his feet violently. "I wish I understood! I don't know what's happening to me, Aramis, I feel..." He stopped as if by force of will, his face screwed up.

"What do you feel?" asked Aramis gently.

"I feel... I'm afraid that... I'll shatter into a million pieces if I talk about it!"

His confession, whispered as it was, sounded like a shout of despair to Aramis' ears. The words made perfect sense to him - d'Artagnan was indeed fragile, an empty vessel, or perhaps one under unimaginable pressure from everything inside of him. Aramis touched him reassuringly on the arm, but the Gascon had closed up again, and looked away, the muscle in his jaw working as he fought to regain control. After a moment he asked quietly if it was permitted for guests to leave the monastery.

Aramis froze. "Leave?" he managed to ask in a neutral tone of voice. "You wish to leave?"

"Yes."

"Where would you go?"

d'Artagnan shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled on the wounds across his back but seemingly oblivious. "Just ... outside. I need to walk. I need to..." He sighed, his hands rising as if in frustration at his inability to express himself.

Aramis closed his eyes in relief as he realised the Gascon had not meant leave permanently. "Of course. I will show you the environs and you may explore at will. Come."

They walked shoulder to shoulder through the gates and outside the monastery wall. Beyond, there was a vast meadow stretching down to a small lake, and fields tended by monks and some lay folk from the nearby village. There was a small huddle of farm buildings and an orchard where a flock of chickens pecked and scratched in the earth. It was a tranquil scene and d'Artagnan visibly relaxed as he took in every detail.

That first time they walked only as far as the lake before d'Artagnan seemed to tire, but after that he spent most of his time outside, walking slowly, or sitting in the sun watching the sky, or venturing into the lake for a swim. Aramis accompanied him once only, shocked at how cold the water was and how little it seemed to affect the Gascon. After that he waited on the meadow until d'Artagnan climbed out, icy cold and shivering, but always looking happier.

Aramis took to bringing his basket of potions with him, as the Gascon's scabs would be softened by immersion in the water and it was the ideal time to tend him. He would lay a blanket on the grass so to dry himself in the sun, and Aramis would sit beside him and rub the healing salves into the scars on his face, back and arms.

d'Artagnan would lie silently, face turned to one side, his eyes closed as Aramis worked. And one day, when Aramis had finished and helped him put his shirt on, d'Artagnan had wrapped his arms around his knees, watching a group of moorhens venture out from the reeds bordering the lake, and said:

"I described this to Captain LeVente, when he was dying. Not here, this lake, exactly, but somewhere like it. Somewhere peaceful. The sun on the back of your neck. The breeze rifling your hair and making the grasses dance. The twitter of the swallows as they swoop and dip for water from the lake. The scent of dog roses, and mown hay being stacked. Children's voices laughing in the distance. The silent clouds drifting overhead. The deep blue sky ..." Aramis listened, entranced, as d'Artagnan's soft words described perfectly what he could perceive with his own senses but did not always remember to notice.

d'Artagnan's voice had drifted off, and he sat silent for a long time, then heaved a deep sigh, turning to Aramis with unreadable eyes. "Can I tell you about it?"

Aramis tried not to let anything show other than calm acceptance and invitation, but inside he was celebrating. At last! Even as he nodded, he was saying a silent prayer of thankfulness to the Lord for helping this wounded soul get to the point where he could start to speak about his experience.

* * *

* A few notes here, if you are interested, since I had to do some Wiki research to find out what was plausible for this part of the story.

Douai was a Benedictine priory founded in 1615. The community was evicted from France in 1903 after the French Laws of Association (and moved to Berkshire in the UK where it still exists). Technically when Aramis was there I suppose the head would have been a Prior, not an Abbe, but I wasn't sure what the difference was without doing a lot more digging so kept it simple. Thanks, by the way, to FierGascon for putting me straight on how to address an Abbe - gladly noted!

The Rule of Saint Benedict is a book of precepts written by Benedict of Nursia (c. 480 – 550 AD) for monks living communally under the authority of an abbot. His Rule was written as a guide for individual, autonomous communities rather than to outline a religious order as such. His concerns were the needs of monks in a community environment: namely, to establish due order, to foster an understanding of the relational nature of human beings, and to provide a spiritual father to support and strengthen the individual's ascetic effort and spiritual growth. The Rule consists of 73 chapters outlining the organisation of the monastic community. Several were useful in helping me work out what rules Aramis might have had to follow in this situation. Chapter 33 forbids the private ownership of any possessions except with the permission of the Abbot, and Chapter 54 forbids monks to receive gifts without the Abbot's permission. Chapter 53 describes the obligation to offer hospitality to guests who would be under the special protection of an appointed monk. Guests would not associate with the rest of the community except by special permission. Meals could be taken with the community but guests would sit separately.

Compline: I quote from the Liturgy of the Hours as cited in the Universalis publishing website. I didn't mean to include so much and was simply looking to find out what kind of prayers would be said, but although I'm not a regular church-goer, I found myself fascinated by the rhythm of the words and the way they wielded God as both protector and judge, someone to be both feared and trusted. I also recognised the words Aramis used in the service in Episode 3.3, which I had found moving – the one about " _a thousand will fall at your side, at your right ten thousand will fall, but you it will never come near_ " and I could imagine that these words would have comforted many a soldier across the centuries. Aramis certainly knew them inside out! So I included more than I expected, here, and hope that those who are bored by this will easily be able to skip over the italics!

The offices: traditionally, the daily life of the Benedictine revolved around the eight canonical hours. The monastic timetable began at midnight with the service, or "office", of _Matins_ followed by the morning office of _Lauds_ at 3am. Before the advent of wax candles in the 14th century, this office was said in the dark or with minimal lighting, and monks were expected to memorise everything. Afterwards the monks would retire for a few hours of sleep and then rise at 6am to wash and attend the office of _Prime_. They then gathered in _Chapter_ to receive instructions for the day and to attend to any judicial business. Then came private Mass or spiritual reading or work until 9am when the office of _Terce_ was said, and then High Mass. At noon came the office of _Sext_ and the midday meal. After a brief period of communal recreation, the monk could retire to rest until the office of _None_ at 3pm. This was followed by farming and housekeeping work until after twilight, the evening prayer of _Vespers_ at 6pm, then the night prayer of _Compline_ at 9pm, and off to blessed bed before beginning the cycle again.

 _I hope I haven't gone overboard by including these details, but they were part of Aramis' routine and I found it fascinating to explore his world. I have always loved the sound of monks chanting and had a happy visit to Tintern Abbey during the summer, which gave me some details like the night stairs leading straight from the dormitories to the chapel. I read all the Brother Cadfael novels many years ago and often wonder if I was a monk in a former life as I find that world intensely comforting (or at least our sanitised 21st century view of it!). When I first started writing this I had thought about breaking with canon entirely and sending Aramis back to the front with d'Artagnan, but once I reached this point in the story I realised I wanted him to stay in the peace of Douai until he had worked out for himself where his destiny lay._

 _That's all for now, folks; now I should get on with my Sunday!_


	12. Chapter 12: The Lost, The Broke Part 1

_Now we start to hear about the rest of d'Artagnan's captivity, and finally meet Bautista. I feel I should apologise in advance to any Spanish readers: I'm sorry that your countrymen end up being the villains in these war stories! Please blame it on King Louis XIII for declaring war on Spain, and on the Musketeers for being so gorgeous that of course they are the heroes of that war. Also apologies to any war veterans if I have got things wrong, or gone too far. I have tried to explore what might happen in a lawless situation where a group of men have power over another, and I hope it is plausible and thought-provoking rather than gratuitous. Again, please heed the warning: the next couple of chapters are not happy ones, with themes of helplessness and violence - and some mild swearing and blasphemy. Translations are at the end._

 **Chapter Twelve: The Lost, The Broke, The Defeated Part I**

 _Spanish foothills, late Spring 1634_

d'Artagnan was aware first of a terrible throbbing in his face. The pain arrived without warning, instantly, where before there had only been... what? What had there been? His mind scrambled from image to image, trying to catch up. They'd been riding. He'd been joking with Patrice about Captain LeVente's saddle, which had a high pommel which made him look more farmer than soldier. They'd been patrolling – where? Where had they been?

He groaned, involuntarily, as the memories suddenly crashed back into place. They'd been riding two abreast along a high track; scrubby hill on one side, slope down to a thin stream on the other. He'd heard a shout of warning from Captain LeVente, then pandemonium as shots rang out from all sides. d'Artagnan remembered leaping from his horse, shouting to Patrice to get down, drawing his pistol in mid-air and landing in a crouch, swinging round to see where the attack came from and immediately seeing a swarm of red-coated Spanish soldiers rising out of cover on the stream side, and others moving down from the slope above the path. Before he could get a shot off, something slammed into his face and he remembered nothing more.

God, his face hurt! His tongue probed the torn flesh inside his cheek as he raised a hand to explore the damage – to be brought up short by something dragging on his wrists. A familiar chinking and the bite of cold metal told him exactly why he couldn't bring his hands to his face, and a mental inventory suggested he'd been relieved of both his body armour and his favourite boots. A cold sensation settled in his stomach. Not lying at the bottom of the slope then, safely hidden in scrub; nor back in the infirmary at base camp, waiting for a lecture from Etienne. A faint staccato of conversation from behind him and a burst of unfamiliar laughter filled in the final blank. Not French voices. Spanish.

It dawned on him then that he'd been using his ears rather than his eyes. Opening them seemed to take a conscious effort and at first his vision remained dark, scaring him more than anything else so far until he realised they were glued shut with a sticky substance – no doubt his own blood. He moved his head slowly, rubbing his right eye against his shoulder, then winced as bright sunshine flooded into his tender brain. White flashes seemed to coincide with the throbbing pain in his head and face which now clamoured for attention. Squeezing his lids shut and turning his head quickly to the side, he found bile rushing to the back of his throat as his world swirled and distorted uncomfortably around him.

As he retched, spitting up the small amount of liquid from his stomach, he heard an exclamation from his right, then a voice calling his name anxiously. d'Artagnan's sluggish mind identified the voice: Patrice.

"d'Artagnan, are you alright? Please, d'Artagnan, wake up." Patrice was whispering but with a definite tinge of hysteria in his voice.

"I'm awake," d'Artagnan managed, sounding just as bad as he felt. Moving his jaw hurt and he groaned with the escalating pain.

"Shhh!" Patrice sounded frantic and d'Artagnan twisted around to look at him, wondering why. Immediately it became clear, as he saw a black-booted figure striding directly towards him. d'Artagnan pushed himself awkwardly to a sitting position just as the man stopped in front of him and barked something in Spanish. When d'Artagnan didn't immediately answer the figure took a step closer and simply kicked him in the head, hard enough to snap his jaw and send him slamming into the ground with a gasp.

"No, don't, he's only just – oomph!" Patrice's entreaty was cut short by a vicious kick delivered to his stomach. Lying on his side, face down in the dust, blood pooling in his mouth, d'Artagnan felt horribly vulnerable as the figure turned to him again.

"Your name?"

d'Artagnan hesitated. They had all been briefed on what to do if captured; the convention was to give nothing away, even names or ranks. But would it matter? A name alone could tell the Spanish nothing useful and it might help to establish some kind of rapport if – _Putain!_ He'd contemplated too long, and his interrogator had kicked him on the same place on his jaw. Blinding pain shot up his face and he fought against the black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"Name!" the man barked again.

d'Artagnan gathered his scrambled wits and made a decision. Pushing himself unsteadily back up on one elbow, he looked the man straight in the eyes and shook his head, slowly but deliberately.

The man looked him up and down for a moment, then laughed and turned away. d'Artagnan let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and slumped against the post to which his wrists were chained, trying to calm the pounding of his heart.

To his right, he could see Patrice staring at him anxiously, and he roused himself enough to give him a smile – although his jaw hurt so much he thought it might have come out as more of a grimace. He probed it with his tongue again. Even so gentle a touch made him gasp in pain. His jaw was already so swollen he could see it out of his left eye.

To take his mind off his discomfort, he looked around. They were tied to rings embedded in posts in the centre of a small dusty courtyard surrounded by low stone walls and a huddle of ramshackle adobe structures in one corner, most roofless. There was a group of around ten men huddled around a fire in one room, and a number of horses penned in another. Presumably the prisoners were tied where the horses would normally be, he thought sourly. To his left there was another figure, huddled and breathing harshly: Captain LeVente.

"Sir?" he whispered, trying to speak clearly past the bruised and swollen flesh in his mouth.

"He's unconscious," whispered Patrice from his right. d'Artagnan turned a questioning look his way and Patrice obliged. "He was shot in the stomach when we were attacked. I saw you go down and Girault too. There were half a dozen pistols pointing at me, so I – I surrendered. I'm sorry!" He sounded so miserable that d'Artagnan was immediately driven to comfort him.

"Sensible. No point in us all being injured." He looked around again. "Where's Girault? I saw him fall from his horse."

"I don't know. He looked – I think he's dead."

d'Artagnan closed his eyes, feeling shock wash over him, but then pushed it away firmly: there was no time for that now. They needed to work out what was going on, and fast. Why had they been taken? What did they want? Patrice couldn't answer those but he might know the answer to another important question: "Any idea where we are?"

"They put us over their saddles, so I couldn't see much. I suppose we rode for an hour or so."

d'Artagnan considered, wishing his head wasn't aching so much. They'd been patrolling close to the border, but still well on their own side, or so they had thought. Either the Spanish were using different maps, or they'd pushed deliberately into French territory. Looking for prisoners, perhaps to use as hostages? He didn't know if the French had taken any notable prisoners themselves recently; perhaps they would look for an exchange.

He voiced this thought to Patrice, who seemed to brighten as he listened. d'Artagnan felt for him, left to bear the brunt of the Spanish questions alone.

"How long was I unconscious?" His jaw was throbbing so much he couldn't say the word properly but Patrice seemed to understand.

"A couple of hours."

Jesus. No wonder the lad was so upset. He was visibly trembling in the faint light cast by the Spaniard's campfire. With LeVente and d'Artagnan both unconscious all the focus would have been on him. He must have been terrified.

"What happened while I was out of it?"

"That man, the one that kicked you? He's their Captain. Ortega, I think they called him. He's asked me a few questions, not many so far. My name, my unit. I haven't told him anything yet."

d'Artagnan winced at the 'yet'. "You must not tell him anything, Patrice!" he said, urgently.

Patrice was silent, staring at the ground.

"Listen to me! As soon as you tell them what they want to know, they won't need us anymore! You must keep quiet."

"I thought you said we would be exchanged for Spanish prisoners," whispered Patrice.

 _Merde_. He could see the fear rising in Patrice's face again. Quickly he back-tracked. "We have many possible uses to them, but we must not give them any information. Above all just keep calm. Athos won't leave us here; he will be looking for us already, don't forget."

Patrice seemed to relax as he spoke, then stiffened again. In his haste to reassure the other Musketeer, d'Artagnan had raised his voice above a whisper and heads were turning in their direction.

He watched, dread filling his stomach, as the tall figure of the Captain peeled away from the others sitting around the fire and moved deliberately towards them. Calling something over his shoulder, he came to a halt in front of d'Artagnan again as two others followed him.

"You are ready to talk, it seems?"

The man's French was very good, mused d'Artagnan to distract himself as he watched the man's feet and hands carefully, wondering where the first hit would come from. The Captain tipped his head on one side as he waited to see if d'Artagnan would answer, then sighed exaggeratedly.

"Strange. You speak to your friend but not me. Perhaps I should ask him."

He turned to Patrice, who shrank back against his post, chin trembling as he tried to glare defiantly. The Captain laughed, harshly. "You are a mouse! A scared mouse!" He snapped his fingers and the two men who had been watching silently now stepped forward and hauled Patrice to his feet.

"No, wait!" d'Artagnan found himself calling. The Captain flicked him an amused glance but kept his attention on Patrice.

"He's only a recruit, he knows nothing of value to you!" d'Artagnan protested, as the men bent to unshackle Patrice's hands.

"You bastards, he's only a recruit – aagh!" This time the Captain reacted swiftly, backhanding d'Artagnan so hard that he crashed to the ground again. Blinking tears and dust from his eyes, he saw the Captain signalling his men to leave Patrice, and steeled himself for what was to come.

What came was as bad as he had feared. The two henchmen unchained him, leaving his hands manacled behind his back, and held him tightly by the arms while their Captain punched d'Artagnan repeatedly in the stomach. When he hit him in the ribs by mistake, he cursed and shook his hand out, then snapped out a command. Another man rose from the fire and hurried over, carrying a sturdy stick collected from the woodpile. The Captain hefted it experimentally, then took a swing at d'Artagnan. When it connected with his ribs, he couldn't help but cry out in pain, stumbling backwards against the men holding him upright. The Captain laughed, and swung the stick back again, this time hitting d'Artagnan flat across the stomach and knocking all the air from his lungs. Black dots danced in front of his eyes and he felt his knees sagging as unconsciousness beckoned.

For a moment he welcomed it, happy to sink into the depths and leave the pain behind. But another sharp command was followed by a bucket-full of cold water full in his face. Gasping at the shock of it, d'Artagnan shook the droplets from his hair, groaning as this sharpened the pain in his head

Another punch in the face, another wallop across his ribs and finally – finally! – a question. Oh, yeah, his name. Managing to raise his head he met the man's eyes with what he hoped was a level gaze and shook his head, slowly this time.

The Captain muttered something and the two men holding his arms yanked him roughly forwards. Caught unawares he felt muscles tearing in his shoulders as he scrambled to get his feet under him. They started dragging him over towards the fire; once there, they dropped him unceremoniously to the ground. For a moment he lay panting, wondering why they had brought him over here. Another command brought the men around the fire to their feet, stretching, laughing, cracking their knuckles. One wandered casually towards him, and then a kick exploded onto his back. As d'Artagnan twisted automatically away from the pain another kick landed on his ribs, and another on his shoulders. Someone stamped on his wrist, someone else jumped onto his ankles. Laughter and raucous jeering rose in volume as the men jostled for position around him. Unable to breath, d'Artagnan could only curl into himself and pray for the blessed relief of unconsciousness as the blows rained down on his body.

* * *

He awoke slowly, as before, but this time feeling throbbing pain over every part of his body. He tried to lift his head and immediately cried out in agony as every muscle spasmed in an explosion of pain. "Oh, sweet Jesus, help me," he found himself saying over and over in his head, as his back arched backwards, pulling on his torn stomach muscles, but he was powerless to control his body. For long moments all he could do was pant and try to drag a clean breath into his lungs. After what felt like hours the spasm began to pass and he managed to curl into himself again, even though this pulled horribly on his arms which were still manacled behind his back.

Gradually he became aware of a soft voice calling his name. "d'Artagnan, are you alright? d'Artagnan, answer me, please!"

Patrice sounded shit scared and d'Artagnan tried to gather himself together, hearing the plea in the lad's voice. He always thought of him as a lad, even though he was a few years older than d'Artagnan. He had joined the Musketeers from the regular army, much as Fouchard had. But where Fouchard had a spark of initiative and rebellion in him, which stood him in good stead in this infernal war, Patrice was still nervous and looked to the older Musketeers for guidance. Somehow d'Artagnan seemed to be included in this group, perhaps because of his association with Athos and Porthos, or perhaps just because he'd been a Musketeer longer than Patrice, who often sought his opinion or advice. Now, he sounded as if he was on the edge of panic.

"I'm okay. It's alright," d'Artagnan mumbled, trying to sit up.

"Oh, God!" Patrice sobbed the words in sheer relief. "I thought they'd killed you!"

"Takes more than that..." d'Artagnan started, but stopped as a new wave of pain hit him. He shut his eyes until it passed, then tried to smile reassuringly at Patrice.

Apparently smiling with what felt like a broken jaw, blood pouring from a split lip and eyes swollen half shut was not very reassuring, as Patrice simply looked even more alarmed.

"Help me up?" d'Artagnan tried to say, attempting to push himself upright. Patrice shuffled over until his shoulder almost touched d'Artagnan's, but that was as close as they could get. Using the post and ignoring the new bruises he discovered with each movement, d'Artagnan finally got himself upright.

It was nearly dawn, and most of the men around the fire appeared to be sleeping. There was no sign of the Spanish captain or the two men who'd helped him deliver the first part of the beating.

"Is there any water?" asked d'Artagnan indistinctly, suddenly aware of his raging thirst.

"No, I don't think so. I could – I could ask?" Patrice sounded so reluctant that d'Artagnan almost laughed, before remembering that this would hurt.

"Don't worry. I can wait." He looked to his left and saw Captain LeVente was awake, his eyes gleaming in the half light. "Captain! How are you?"

The man's mouth worked but no sound came out other than a groan. Able to see him properly for the first time since their capture, d'Artagnan realised that the man's hands were clamped to his stomach and coated in sticky blood. Looking back at his face, he saw him smile, briefly, a wry smile that said " _I know. Doesn't look great, does it? Never mind, these things happen_ ," and a whole lot more, including " _sorry I can't stay with you_ ," and " _stay strong_." d'Artagnan could see all of this as clearly as if LeVente had spoken the words aloud. Or maybe he was just projecting his own thoughts at the army man.

Mentally shaking himself, he steeled himself and then called out as clearly as he could. " _Agua, por favor. Agua para el capit_ _á_ _n!"_

Nothing happened for a moment, then a shadow emerged from under the walls of the courtyard and a short man approached them slowly. No, not a man, amended d'Artagnan, a boy. With unkempt dark hair and shabby clothes, he looked like a street urchin, and behaved a little that way, looking around nervously as he came close. Stopping well short of d'Artagnan he checked again around, then crouched in front of him and held out a bottle of water.

d'Artagnan couldn't take his eyes off the water bottle, and an intense longing for the cool liquid drained him of every thought other than the desire to feel water flowing down his swollen throat...

Mentally shaking himself he tipped his head towards Captain LeVente. " _El capit_ _á_ _n lo necesita. Gracias, chico._ " Obediently the boy moved over to the Captain and slipped a hand around his shoulders to lift him so he could hold the bottle to his lips. d'Artagnan could hear the Captain gulping the water down greedily and he found himself swallowing enviously.

There was a quiet murmur from the captain, and the boy lowered him gently to the ground again. d'Artagnan was intrigued by the boy's tenderness as well as his obvious fear as he constantly checked to make sure he was unobserved.

" _Gracias_ ," he said again. The boy held the bottle out to him. This time d'Artagnan leaned forward greedily as the boy held the bottle to his lips. God, it tasted good! he thought, as the sweet cool liquid flowed down his throat. He had to suppress a flash of disappointment when the bottle was removed, and the boy moved on to Patrice who had been watching everything silently.

When the bottle was empty the boy rose to his feet and went to move off.

" _Esp_ _é_ _rate! Qual es tu nombre, chico_?" whispered d'Artagnan, urgently, clinging on to the glimmer of humanity shown by the boy.

" _Soy Felipe_ ," the boy muttered, then moved off before d'Artagnan could thank him again.

* * *

There was no sign of his interrogator in the morning. They were given no food, but someone sent Felipe with another bottle of water from which they all drank, gratefully. d'Artagnan shifted continuously, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position. Beside him, Captain LeVente drifted in and out of consciousness, his breathing becoming more rapid and harsh as the hours dragged on. By noon he was moaning out loud, and by mid-afternoon the sound was loud enough to bother the soldiers lounging in the shade of the courtyard walls. One of them wandered over and d'Artagnan recognised him as one of his 'handlers' from the night before. This one was muscular, not overly tall but with powerful hands and muscular forearms to rival Porthos'. His eyes were dark, small and expressionless, burning out at d'Artagnan with a look of hatred. His nose was strong and slightly hooked, and a scar twisted down one cheek, puckering his mouth into a permanent scowl. Or maybe that was just his personality.

He stood with his hands on his hips glaring at LeVente who was panting with pain now, sweat pouring off him like water.

" _C_ _á_ _llate_!" he said, extending a boot and poking LeVente in the shoulder.

"He can't help it! Can't you see he's in pain?" snapped d'Artagnan, furious at the man's inhumanity.

In a flash the man had pulled a blade from his belt and had grabbed d'Artagnan's wrist, yanking it around from behind him. Without hesitation he drew the blade deeply across d'Artagnan's forearm, slicing straight through his shirt and into his skin. d'Artagnan stared in utter shock as dark blood instantly welled from the cut, quickly turning his sleeve red, before suppressing a gasp as the pain caught up with him.

" _Silencio_!" hissed hook-nose, twisting d'Artagnan's arm towards him and slashing across it again with the knife. A second line of blood and a searing pain followed the blade again. This time d'Artagnan clamped his jaw shut and managed not to make a sound. The man stared at him, their eyes locking for a moment. Slowly the man twisted d'Artagnan's wrist, digging his fingers into one of the cuts cruelly, all the while watching d'Artagnan's expression minutely. d'Artagnan felt sweat breaking out on his forehead but he forced himself to breath evenly and keep silent, although he could feel his neck muscles bulging with the strain.

Suddenly his wrist was released and the man stepped back. For a moment a cruel smile ghosted across his face and then he nodded, as if in satisfaction, and turned sharply away.

d'Artagnan sagged back against the post, finally allowing a ragged breath to escape as he breathed sharply through the pain.

"What was that about?" whispered Patrice tremulously.

d'Artagnan couldn't answer immediately, feeling shaken by the encounter, his stomach churning. "I think," he managed after a moment, "that was about control."

"Oh, God!" breathed Patrice, unsteadily. "He scares me, d'Artagnan!"

Yes, indeed, thought d'Artagnan bleakly.

* * *

 _Agua, por favor. Agua para el capit_ _á_ _n_ = Water, please. Water for the captain.

 _El capit_ _á_ _n lo necesita. Gracias, chico_ = The captain needs it. Thanks, boy

 _Esp_ _é_ _rate! Qual es tu nombre, chico_ = Wait! What is your name, boy?

 _Soy Felipe_ = I am Felipe.

 _C_ _á_ _llate_ = Be quiet

 _Silencio_ = silence!


	13. Chapter 13: The Lost, The Broke Part II

_Warnings: as before. You've got this far so you will have an idea of what to expect. It's not pretty, but I hope it describes what can happen in war, framed in the context of hope and courage and in the knowledge that everyone is safe and listening two years later. Well, nearly everyone... Oh, and Helensg, if you're reading, there's a teeny little something for you in here!_

 _Once again, thank you for reading, and especially for the favourites, follows and reviews which never fail to give me a boost!_

 **Chapter Thirteen: The Lost, The Broke, The Defeated Part II**

It was mid-afternoon before they saw the Spanish captain again, and by that time d'Artagnan was beside himself. It was torture listening to LeVente as he groaned and twisted with pain. Flies buzzed around the wound in his stomach and there was a growing stench, either from the wound or maybe from a loss of control over his bowels. More than anything, d'Artagnan wanted to crawl to him; to shade him from the burning sun, to offer him water and hold his hand as he died: for he was dying, slowly and in agony. But he was chained six feet away and all he could do was keep talking to him quietly, painting verbal pictures which, he hoped, might distract and comfort him.

His own wounds throbbed mercilessly and there was a pounding in his head that came as much from thirst and heat as from his concussion. Beside him, Patrice sat in silent misery, occasionally dropping to sleep then jerking awake with a sob as the reality of their situation flooded back.

When the Spanish captain arrived back with a group of soldiers and a flurry of horses, it was almost a relief. He glanced over as he dismounted, and barked out something sharp as he looked at the three prisoners. Hook-nose ambled over and addressed him in a slow drawl. Captain Ortega snapped something back and d'Artagnan saw Hook-nose lift his lip in a half sneer, then he stepped back and motioned to the young lad, Felipe. Almost eagerly, it seemed, Felipe grabbed a water bucket and loped over to the three prisoners, offering water first to Captain LeVente as before – lifting his head and holding the ladle to his lips. This time, LeVente seemed unaware, and the water dribbled uselessly down his chin.

d'Artagnan found this so distressing that he almost refused the water himself, but after hours sitting under the burning sun he knew it would be suicidal not to drink. As Felipe lowered the bottle, d'Artagnan whispered quickly to him. " _Tienes algo para el dolor_?" Startled, Felipe reared backwards, dropping the ladle. Glancing around quickly he stooped to snatch it up and stepped quickly away from d'Artagnan. Patrice looked on curiously, not having heard what d'Artagnan had said. " _Es para mi capit_ _á_ _n_ ," d'Artagnan whispered urgently as Felipe moved over to Patrice. Felipe gave no sign of having heard, and snatched the ladle back as soon as Patrice had finished, scuttling quickly back towards the other men.

d'Artagnan closed his eyes, trying in vain to block out the sound of LeVente's low groaning, and Patrice's panicked breathing which sounded like a sob.

Around half an hour later, Ortega walked over and stood watching the three prisoners. His gaze lingered longest on LeVente, but eventually he approached d'Artagnan and crouched down to his level.

"You asked for something for pain for him?"

d'Artagnan looked up, surprised, and nodded slowly. "You can't let him suffer like this. If you have something that will help him, please, give it to him."

The dark eyes regarded him. "Will you answer my questions?"

d'Artagnan hesitated, looking over at LeVente, who had curled up with his back to the courtyard and was rocking himself, his breath coming in tiny pants of pain. Reluctantly he nodded, trying to sound casual. "I'll answer a couple of questions, sure."

"What is your name and rank?"

"d'Artagnan. I'm a sub-lieutenant."

"What is your unit?"

d'Artagnan considered, his eyes straying again to LeVente. Would it really make a difference if the Spanish knew the name of their regiment?

"I'm with the King's Musketeers."

"Where is your camp?"

d'Artagnan looked at him. "I said I would answer a couple of questions, which I have done. Will you keep your word?"

Ortega rose suddenly, and stood looking down at him. "I gave you no word." He turned sharply and walked briskly away, calling to one of his men as he did. d'Artagnan cursed, then cursed again more viciously. Bastard Spaniard! He'd thought himself clever, and the shit-faced son of a bitch had run rings around him, and now...

Patrice was hissing at him.

"What?" He'd had enough of Patrice; enough of supporting him and telling him everything would be okay; enough of Patrice turning to him for everything ...

"He's doing it."

d'Artagnan looked up. Sure enough, Ortega was standing with his arms crossed, watching them from across the courtyard, while one of his soldiers walked across to LeVente holding a small vial. Opening the stopper carefully, he crouched and tipped a couple of drops into LeVente's mouth, waiting until he had swallowed the liquid before standing, casting d'Artagnan a curious look, and walking back to the others.

Dividing his attention between the two captains, hardly daring to believe that his weak plan had succeeded, d'Artagnan noticed LeVente's breathing calmed down and after a few minutes his frame seemed to soften as he relaxed into a deep sleep. Looking over, d'Artagnan nodded his thanks to Ortega who stared impassively back.

* * *

As darkness fell, Ortega approached again. "He is sleeping now?"

"As you see."

"Good. Then let us not disturb him. Bautista!" He called over his shoulder and someone detached himself from the group around the fire. d'Artagnan's heart sank as he made out the hook-nosed silhouette of his tormentor from the night before.

"I see you have already met my lieutenant. That is good: I hope we can make progress. So, you understand the rules? I ask a question and you answer. Or my officer will be happy to help you to answer. Is that clear?"

d'Artagnan looked away, trying to control his breathing which had suddenly speeded up. Bautista stepped a little closer and pulled his knife out, using it to pick dirt from under his nails. d'Artagnan almost laughed at the predictability of the pose, but realised it would not the most sensible reaction under the circumstances.

"Where is your camp?" The Captain fired his first question with no preamble. d'Artagnan tried to relax his aching jaw as he watched Bautista, waiting for the first blow to land. Bautista kept his eyes on his knife, but drifted slowly closer to d'Artagnan.

"You have no answer?" d'Artagnan kept silent. "I am disappointed. But my friend will be happy." He nodded at Bautista who took a final step forward – and grabbed Patrice by his hair, wrenching his head back and placing his knife to the youngster's throat.

"Hey! No, leave him alone," shouted d'Artagnan, half rising. Without even looking, Bautista lashed backwards with his foot, catching d'Artagnan full in the chest and knocking him flat. As he struggled to sit up again, still protesting that Patrice was not even an officer and knew nothing of interest, Bautista swung Patrice around so d'Artagnan could see every bead of sweat on Patrice's desperate face, and the drop of blood that was forming around the tip of the dagger pressing on his windpipe.

"Again, Monsieur d'Artagnan. Where is your camp?"

Jesus. Patrice's eyes were bulging in fear as he held himself rigid, trying not to twitch. The knife blade dug in a little further, and more blood started to dribble down the line of his throat.

"It was near Larrau," d'Artagnan spat out furiously, thinking the Spanish would surely already know the location of most of the French troops along the border.

"How near?"

"I don't know. An hour or so." He deliberately didn't specify whether this was on foot or horseback, or any direction. Ortega assessed him, as if fully aware of his prevarication, but moved on.

"How many men there?"

"I have no idea! Units come and go all the time and I'm not a captain, I don't have the numbers."

Patrice let out a whimper as the knife shifted on his skin. d'Artagnan could see Bautista's fingers digging viciously into Patrice's cheek as he shifted his grip on the Musketeer's head. d'Artagnan turned to hiss at Ortega. "I'm answering your questions the best I can. It's hard to remember when your officer is threatening to kill my friend!"

"Would you be answering, otherwise?"

d'Artagnan's heart was skittering around in his chest. He'd resolved not to talk; had told Patrice over and over not to talk; that they would be expendable once they'd talked. He could not say any more! Patrice's eyes were filling with tears and d'Artagnan fixed his eyes on the young man, trying to tell him – what? That he was sorry? To be brave? "What would you do in my position, Captain?" he blurted out in desperation, hoping to give himself another second or two to think.

To his surprise, Ortega started to laugh. "Good question. What indeed... You have no option, do you?"

Not sure which option the Captain referred to, in his heart d'Artagnan knew he had to keep quiet, at least a little longer. Another day or two, if they survived, should give the General and his army time to change passwords, change supply lines; even to move camp if they were truly worried. He had to give them that time to plan. Without taking his eyes off Patrice, d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "I cannot answer your questions, Captain."

Time seemed to slow. d'Artagnan had time to mouth "courage, my friend" at Patrice before Ortega snapped his fingers, Bautista dragged Patrice's head even further back, and in a flash drew the knife across his throat, shoving him forwards in the same movement.

d'Artagnan heard a whimper, and knew it came from his own mouth as he watched in horror as Patrice fell limply to the ground.

Then saw him curl up on himself, sobbing quietly.

He was alive? He was still alive!

Before he even had time to feel relief, Bautista had stepped over Patrice's body and jammed his knife into the skin by d'Artagnan's left eye. d'Artagnan could feel it digging in, grating against the bone of his eye socket. He gasped in shock but held himself rigid, arching his back, as far as he could, to lessen the force of the knife. The blurred, scarred blade filled the vision in his left eye, but he tried to keep the fear from his face, jutting his chin forward and glaring at Bautista with every ounce of his willpower. He could feel hot blood trickling down his cheek as they locked eyes, Bautista's mouth twisting in a sadistic smile. He shifted his grip on the hilt a fraction and d'Artagnan could see the gleam in his eyes as he started to twist the blade, moving it closer and closer to d'Artagnan's eye.

Suddenly a command was barked out, and when Bautista did not react it was repeated more forcefully. Bautista snorted a knowing laugh, and pulled the blade back, trailing it slowly and lightly down the side of d'Artagnan's face, then seemed to lose interest and simply wiped the blood - d'Artagnan's and Patrice's – on d'Artagnan's shirt before sheathing it with a flourish. Both officers turned away, but then Ortega looked back at d'Artagnan dispassionately. "This is your final warning, Frenchman. No more chances. Talk or die."

For a long time d'Artagnan could do nothing other than bite his lip and pant, sweat beading on his forehead and mingling with the blood he could feel coating his cheek and welling into his eye. The cut stung and brought tears to his eyes, and for a few minutes when he blinked bloody drips fell to his lap. He nearly panicked then, thinking the Spanish bastard had blinded him in that eye, but gradually his vision cleared as the bleeding slowed, and with it his heart rate.

Patrice lay shaking for a long time after the Spaniards had retired to the other side of the courtyard, but eventually he pulled himself upright. Dirt clung to the thin line of blood coating his throat just above his Adam's apple. It looked grotesque, as if his throat had indeed been cut. d'Artagnan whispered an apology to Patrice, who remained silent, shaken and white-faced, and kept his back turned.

* * *

It was part way through the following agonisingly long night that d'Artagnan heard LeVente begin to cry out again. Whatever pain-killing concoction he had been given had clearly worn off. He was soon writhing in agony, hands clutching desperately at the black blood glistened around the wound in his stomach. He moaned and whimpered, calling out occasionally in words which made little sense except for " _Dieu, aidez-moi_!" and " _Sainte M_ _è_ _re_ ".

After several hours of this, both d'Artagnan and Patrice were near to breaking point. Patrice was openly crying, sobbing to d'Artagnan that he couldn't bear this anymore.

"We'll be fine, Patrice," d'Artagnan promised over and over, ignoring his own pain and fear as best he could. "They'll come for us. Athos won't leave us here. They're on their way, we just have to stay strong. Be strong. Remember your father? He never gave up and he'll be so proud of you when you tell him about the time you were captured."

Patrice's father was a blacksmith in Paris, whose left hand had had to be amputated after it was horribly burned by molten metal. Patrice had told d'Artagnan with great pride that his dad had fashioned himself a metal hook for his stump, adapted his tools, and continued to run his business successfully as the only one-armed blacksmith in Paris.

For a while the thought of his father seemed to calm Patrice, but then the whimpering from LeVente started up again and d'Artagnan decided that anything was better than listening to the poor man dying in agony. He waited until someone walked close to the prisoners on their way to relieve himself outside the ruined walls of the fortress, then called out quietly.

"Hey! Over here!" Patrice shushed him frantically but he was resolute. "Our captain needs help. _Ayuda, por favor_."

The shadow paused and d'Artagnan could see the figure glance back towards the camp fire, then drift over towards them. As it neared, he recognised him as the boy, Felipe. Breathing a sigh of relief, he asked him again for pain relief. Felipe stopped near LeVente and crouched in front of him as he writhed weakly on the ground.

"Please, Felipe, have mercy on him. _Ayudalo, por el amor de Cristo_!"

Felipe stood and ran lightly across the courtyard, disappearing from view. d'Artagnan held his breath, not sure if the lad was going to report him, ignore him, or help him.

After a couple of minutes Felipe reappeared and ran at a crouch back to LeVente. Bending over him he gently lifted the man's head and dripped something into his mouth patiently. Lowering his head gently to the ground, Felipe then moved to d'Artagnan and gave him a drink of water, then did the same for Patrice. d'Artagnan stumbled a few words of thanks, his Spanish feeling totally inadequate for the gratitude and respect he felt for the lad's actions. He could only have been fifteen years old, maybe younger, and seemed to be the camp slave, at everyone's beck and call. d'Artagnan wondered how he had come to be associated with these hard-nosed soldiers, but he didn't have the energy to think about it for long. All that mattered was that he was the only one to have shown an ounce of compassion for the prisoners.

By the time Felipe had returned to his sleeping place, LeVente had stopped writhing and d'Artagnan could hear his breath slowing. He lay listening, trying to sleep but unable to stop counting the breaths, and the increasing gap between the breaths, until there came a time when he could not hear LeVente breathing at all, and eventually he realised LeVente had passed away. d'Artagnan remained quiet, knowing from Patrice's own even breathing that he had finally fallen asleep. At least LeVente had been free of pain at the end, he thought to himself, and shut his mind to the thought that he and Patrice might not be far behind him.

* * *

He must have dozed off himself, for the next thing he remembered was being kicked in the ribs. Automatically rolling away to protect himself, he saw it was dawn, and there was a group of Spanish soldiers milling around the prisoners. Angry voices rose, and he picked out a few words – " _capitán_ ", " _Murió rápidamente_ " and " _laudano_ ", which he guessed was Spanish for laudanum, which must have been the pain relief given to LeVente. Shit! Did they suspect that he'd been given more?

It soon became clear that they did more than suspect, when someone produced the small brown bottle he'd last seen in Felipe's hands and inspected its contents by holding it up to the light. Even from his position on the ground d'Artagnan could see that the level was far lower than yesterday.

The next few minutes were pandemonium. Someone launched a flurry of punches and kicks on both Patrice and d'Artagnan. With their hands chained behind them they could do little to protect themselves. d'Artagnan could only duck his head under his shoulder as the heavy blows rained down on his shoulders, arms, back and legs. There was a hubbub of angry voices, some directed at the Frenchmen and some at each other, as the Spaniards blustered and passed blame and accusations wildly.

Into this furore strode the Spanish Captain, cuffing one man across the head and grabbing another by the ear, hurling him to the ground,

as he attempted to restore order. Within seconds everyone had scrambled to a silent circle as their Captain prowled around, firing questions in Spanish too rapid for d'Artagnan to follow.

Suddenly there was a flurry of activity and then d'Artagnan saw, to his horror, Felipe being dragged by his hair into the circle of men. Ortega grabbed him by his chin, fingers digging into his skin and lifting him slightly off the ground, his legs kicking as he squirmed and flailed. He was screaming " _no fui yo_!" over and over, but then the bottle was waved in front of his face and he fell silent, tears streaming down his face. Another barked order and he was struggling and crying out again. A dark stain spread down the front of his trousers and d'Artagnan realised he had wet himself.

"Hey, leave him alone! He's only a boy!" he shouted, knowing it was futile, and probably foolhardy, to try to intervene, but unable to lie quietly and watch without doing something. Ortega glanced over and said something to Bautista, who grinned and grabbed Felipe by the wrists, holding him easily in one of his own hands.

Within seconds Felipe had been dragged over to stand in front of d'Artagnan, and before he could react, Bautista had put one arm around the boy's throat and pulled his dagger, placing the blade against the boy's stomach. Instantly, Felipe stopped struggling, his eyes wide with fear. He started to beg but Bautista's arm tightened around his throat and he fell silent, gasping for breath. d'Artagnan tried to push himself upright on arms still shaking after the beating he'd just taken, but stopped when Ortega wandered over to stand beside him. Almost casually, he remarked: "Was it your idea, or Felipe's, to steal the _laudano_?"

d'Artagnan swallowed but answered resolutely: "It was mine. Our Captain was dying in pain and I called out for help. Felipe heard and – "

"I am not interested in the details." He stooped to speak quietly, for d'Artagnan's ears only. "Remember, this was your doing."

He nodded at Bautista and before d'Artagnan could even frame a protest, he'd jammed the blade deep into Felipe's stomach and dragged it viciously sideways. For a second no one reacted, not even Felipe, who simply stared in disbelief as the skin parted following the blade, and blood began to gush from the horrific wound. Bautista dropped his arm and Felipe collapsed to the ground, clutching frantically at his stomach and beginning to wail.

d'Artagnan shut his eyes in despair as the young lad writhed in pain, sobbing with fear. He could do nothing but watch, biting his lip to stop himself from crying in sympathy. This _was_ his doing! LeVente was all but dead anyway: why, _why_ , **why** had he asked for help?

The suddenness and brutality of the punishment had silenced everyone. When Bautista and Ortega walked away, some of the soldiers remained but most drifted off, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone else. They went about their chores in silence, casting frequent glances over towards where Felipe lay, but not one of them approached him or offered him any comfort.

d'Artagnan tried desperately to control his emotions and remain dispassionate, but his resolve crumbled when the lad clawed his way upright and crawled towards the nearest human being - d'Artagnan. Unable to even put an arm around him, all d'Artagnan could do was talk to him softly as Felipe reached d'Artagnan's lap and collapsed onto his legs, sobbing hysterically in pain.

* * *

"It took him all day to die."

At some point d'Artagnan had taken over the recounting of the early days of his captivity from Aramis. Constance had barely noticed, so wrapped up was she in visualising everything, from the sunlit garden in the monastery and the peaceful monotony of the daily routine there, to the harsh sun beating down on the prisoners in the ruined Spanish fort and the relentless brutality as they tried to survive.

Even though she knew the outcome – could see with her own eyes that her husband sat safely at the table in their cosy living quarters – she was living every second of his ill-treatment as he recounted it, her heart constricting with compassion for what he - and poor Patrice and the young Spanish boy - had to endure.

Slowly aware that he had stopped speaking, she looked around her properly for the first time in what seemed like hours. Probably _was_ hours, she realised, looking at how low the candles had burned and the dim glow from the dying fire in the hearth. At some point she'd been vaguely aware of Tréville rising, whispering an apology to Athos, and slipping out. He always spent the night at the Palace, to be on hand for any developments in the war effort, so she knew the hour must be late. Across from her, Athos sat with his eyes fixed on d'Artagnan, hands gripping his wine goblet fiercely. Next to him Aramis's hands were clasped in his lap, almost as if he were praying. He was staring into the heart of the fire, utterly still apart from one muscle jumping in his jaw. He'd heard all this before, Constance remembered, but it seemed his foreknowledge had done nothing to lessen the impact of d'Artagnan's words now.

On her right, Porthos was fidgeting; his hands were fisted on his knees, his fingers clenching and unclenching incessantly, his foot tapping. She could feel the tension rising off him and she knew he would hate feeling so helpless, this long after the event, where there was nothing he could do – no one to thump or bring to justice – in order to put things right.

On her left, the man she loved so fiercely sat motionless, head down, staring at his hands. He had been twisting them at the beginning of his story, she remembered, but now even that movement seemed beyond him.

How could anyone recover from this?

She shook her head fractionally, eyes filling with tears as she wondered that her husband had returned to her at all, let alone still functioning. Everything she'd found so hard to take – his silences, his rejection of her in bed last night, his restlessness and frequent absences – suddenly seemed insignificant now she understood some of what he'd been through.

The fire settled a little lower in the hearth and still no one had spoken. She looked away from the little she could see of d'Artagnan, and caught Athos' eye. She wasn't sure what to do, feeling completely out of her depths in the alien world of brutality and pain conjured up in this room now. Should she say something to acknowledge his words, or hug him, or perhaps try to bring normality back to the room by stoking the fire and offering more wine?

Athos seemed to catch her indecision, and rose, moving quietly around Aramis and coming to stand behind d'Artagnan. He reached out to place a comforting hand on the back of d'Artagnan's neck and opened his mouth to speak.

But Constance never heard what he was about to say, because all hell broke loose in that instant.

Afterwards she tried to piece together the sequence but couldn't. Everything seemed to happen at once. A look of alarm flashed across Aramis' features as he saw what Athos was doing. He called a warning: "Athos, no! Don't..." but at the same time d'Artagnan had erupted – there was no other word for it – from his chair, legs driving him upright as his elbow shot backwards and caught Athos full in the face with violent force. There was a crack and a gasp of pain from Athos; his head flew back with the force of the blow and he fell heavily backwards to the floor. Porthos roared and seemed to fly from his seat, all his pent up emotions bursting out with the need for action at last. He launched himself at d'Artagnan, his shoulder barging into d'Artagnan's body with an impact that Constance _heard_ rather than saw, and they both crashed to the floor beside Athos.

All this happened in a second, before Constance had done more than half rise from her chair, a hand flying to her mouth in horror.

There was a second of frozen silence, then babble of voices and motion.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Porthos, spitting fury into d'Artagnan's white face as they lay nose to nose in a tangled heap on the floor.

"Athos! _Dios mio_ , are you alright?" Aramis, flinging himself to his knees, arms outstretched, reaching for Athos who lay on his back in stunned silence, blood flooding down his face.

"d'Artagnan – Athos – oh, God!" Constance, looking frantically from one to the other then rushing to get water and cloth, hands trembling.

"Porthos, get up, help d'Artagnan for goodness sake." Aramis again, trying to sit Athos up, grabbing a cloth from Constance with a nod of thanks and holding it under his nose which was the source of all the blood.

"Whad was thad aboud?" Athos, indistinctly, blinking rapidly around the room, clearly stunned.

Porthos, breathing heavily, got to his knees and grabbed d'Artagnan none-too-gently by the arm, pulling him to a sitting position. d'Artagnan suddenly heaved a breath into his lungs and wrapped an arm around his stomach, coughing and retching. Porthos' face creased in puzzlement, then cleared as he realised he'd completely winded d'Artagnan. Anger turned immediately to concern as he scrambled to his feet and hauled d'Artagnan to his feet, dusting him down. "I'm sorry my friend. That's it, just breathe, take your time, I've got you."

d'Artagnan was standing now with hands on knees, head down, heaving ragged breaths and coughing, as Porthos slipped an arm around his shoulders to support him.

Men! Constance muttered to herself, both touched by Porthos' concern and angry at his over-reaction. But Athos had voiced – well, tried to voice – what she was thinking: what was that about? Why had d'Artagnan lashed out at Athos? Nothing had been said...

d'Artagnan straightened up, still panting but looking with colour returning to his cheeks as he held on to Porthos with one hand, and said, in a voice so bleak that Constance hardly recognised it: "Athos?"

Aramis had a wet cloth on the back of Athos' neck now, another draped over his nose, and was holding a third under his nose to stem the bleeding. "He'll be fine, d'Artagnan, don't worry."

An indistinct mumble from Athos could have been dissent or reassurance, she had no idea which, but Aramis laughed and patted Athos on the back. "I'm sure it's not broken," he said in an encouraging voice, his words instantly contradicted by the grimace he made over Athos' head to Constance which made her want to laugh in spite of everything.

"Porthos, why don't you see to the fire? Constance, could you get my bag? I think Athos will have a bit of a headache. d'Artagnan, could you..."

But she never heard what mundane task Aramis would have given her husband, for d'Artagnan had turned in an instant and strode from the room, his head held high but his expression hard and bleak.

Constance called his name, uselessly, and went to follow him but Aramis called her back.

"Just give him a moment, dearest Constance. He will be fine."

"How can you – what was ...?" Her words drifted into silence, unable to frame one question out of the hubbub in her head.

Porthos was standing by the fire, turning a log over and over in his hands, and now he turned sharply, flinging the log down. "Well I'm bloody going after 'im. Athos is 'urt and I need to know why, dammit!"

"No, don't, Porthos." Aramis' voice was calm as Porthos turned his frustration on his oldest friend.

"Why not? 'e can't – look at Athos! All 'e did was go to comfort 'im, an' 'e reacted like that? What's going on, for goodness sake?"

"I'll explain – or he will. It was just – when you put your hand on his neck, Athos – "

"What?" Porthos was belligerent now, torn between fear for d'Artagnan and anger at what he'd done to Athos. "Ain't nothin' we 'aven't done a thousand times before, pull someone in for a hug..."

"No doubt, but he wasn't ready for it."

Porthos just stared. "What d'ya mean 'e wasn't ready for it?"

"He means," Athos suddenly joined in, pushing the bloody cloth away from his nose, "thad d'Artagnan was lost in the past still, and I toog him by surprise."

Aramis nodded in agreement, taking the cloth from Athos and rinsing it in the bowl of pink water at his side.

"Still don't mean 'e can just lash out!"

"He couldn't help it, Porthos, it's what he – "

"What d'ya mean, 'e couldn't 'elp it?"

"He was protecting himself!"

"From _Athos_?"

"No! He was _raped_ , Porthos! And _that's_ how they held him down: by a _boot_ on the back of his _neck_!"

Silence.

No one moved.

Shock on everyone's faces.

Aramis' words seemed to echo around the room. He shut his eyes and screwed up his face, then looked from one to the other, sighing. "Damn. I shouldn't have..." He shook his head. "There are better ways of telling you. d'Artagnan should..." he trailed off, and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck absently. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shock you." He turned to Constance who seemed frozen in place, one hand on the door latch. "Constance, I'm sorry."

She started to shake her head, to tell him it was okay, but realised it was not okay, and that she was crying.

Porthos followed Aramis' gaze, peered at Constance, then grumbled something under his breath and enveloped her in a hug, his chin on the top of her head, stroking her hair comfortingly. She melted into his warmth for a long moment, and then pushed him away. "Where is he? I need to..."

"Wait. Just wait." Aramis' voice held quiet authority and she obeyed, fumbling for a chair and sitting down again with a thump.

Aramis took advantage of everyone's shock to feel along Athos' nose, then pinched the bone with strong fingers and _squeezed._ There was a crack and a yelp of pained surprise from Athos. Aramis patted him absently on the back and told him not to be such a baby, then shoved himself to his feet and went to the wash bowl by the window to rinse the blood from his hands.

When he turned, Athos was touching the bridge of his swollen nose cautiously with one tentative fingertip, and wincing.

"It's straight now, my friend. No harm done." Aramis was aware he might sound callous but his whole being was straining to be out of there and finding d'Artagnan. "Constance, wine all round. Porthos – the fire? I'll be back in a minute." And before anyone could protest, he'd slipped out and shut the door firmly behind him.

* * *

 _I hope you'll understand that I couldn't give a warning without spoiling it, but that's why we end the chapter here, so you can chose to read on if you wish. Next chapter has plenty of the brotherhood and a touch of humour to soften the mood and I promise you that there are no gratuitous details. I hope you trust me to handle it but please let me know - this is the part I've been most hesitant about posting._

 _Translations:_

 _Tienes algo para el dolor_ = Do you have anything for pain?

 _Es para mi capit_ _á_ _n_ = It's for my captain.

 _Dieu, aidez-moi_! = God, help me.

 _Sainte M_ _è_ _re_ = Holy Mother.

 _Ayuda, por favor_ = please help.

 _Ayudalo, por el amor de Cristo_! = Help him, for Christ's sake.

 _Murió rápidamente =_ he died quickly.

 _no fui yo_ = It wasn't me.


	14. Chapter 14: What Would You Sacrifice? I

_I hope you've survived the last chapter and Aramis' bombshell, and don't hate me too much! I didn't go there lightly, but this is an aspect of war that does happen in many different contexts, and I hope it is plausible as part of the control that a captor of particular persuasions might attempt to exert over a prisoner._

 _There is a moment of respite as they regroup in this chapter. I have deliberately framed most of d'Artagnan's story in the context of the garrison or Douai, rather than as "live" action, so the musketeers are there to help him deal with each of the memories, and I hope this flashback style helps to soften the content and relieve the tension from time to time for you as readers. d'Artagnan talks about the impact of what happened, but there is nothing explicit._

 _I am so grateful to those of you who review. Especially when it's such a sensitive subject, I really appreciate hearing your reactions to what I've written so that I know if I've handled it okay. So please don't be shy, and take a minute to write a couple of words if you can (in any language – google translate is marvellous!) Thank you!_

 **Chapter Fourteen: What Would You Sacrifice? Part I**

 _Paris, 1636._

The garrison courtyard was quiet as Aramis emerged from the doorway to the d'Artagnan quarters, and for a moment he paused, drinking in the cool air and enjoying the blessed relief from the intensity of the conversation and the traumatic memories that had taken up their whole afternoon and evening. He took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to release his own tension. Porthos was still teetering on the edge of exploding at him and it was exhausting trying to manage his brewing anger and Constance's hurt, whilst trying to keep d'Artagnan safe as he finally talked everything out.

Thank goodness Athos was keeping calm and seemed to have a reasonable grasp on what d'Artagnan had been through. He had wondered if Athos suspected he'd been involved in helping d'Artagnan whilst he recuperated away from the front. Aramis had caught a couple of assessing glances from Athos since they'd all returned to Paris, usually when Aramis had been slightly protective of d'Artagnan, and this morning when he sent Aramis to find d'Artagnan Athos had virtually admitted his inkling. It had been hard, knowing what the Gascon had been through, to keep his distance from the youngster since their return, but he'd known it was necessary if d'Artagnan was to be able to tell things in his own time.

And now he'd blurted out the one thing he should have left to d'Artagnan to tell.

Admittedly d'Artagnan had left him little choice after reacting so strongly to Athos' unexpected touch. He had realised, during their time together in Douai, that d'Artagnan got particularly tense if Aramis touched him on the nape of his neck, as he sometimes did when giving one of his reassuring hugs, and eventually Aramis had come to understand why without d'Artagnan needing to spell it out. But he'd had no idea d'Artagnan might react so violently if the touch was unexpected. He should have warned them... but how could he, without explaining what was behind it?

He sighed, hoping d'Artagnan had had long enough to get his thoughts together. If Aramis welcomed the quiet calm out here, how much more so would d'Artagnan be in need of a few moments' respite? But the others would need his time too, after his unexpected revelation, so he gathered himself and headed for the stables. It was the nearest likely sanctuary, and if he was not there, at least Aramis could check whether he'd taken Nuit.

Before he'd got halfway there however, he heard footsteps racing down the stone stairs from the d'Artagnan quarters, and turned, wondering who would be needing his diplomatic skills now: Porthos, or Constance? He relaxed as he saw Athos emerge but immediately frowned at the tension evident in his face. He looked ... Aramis didn't have time to analyse how he looked for the man in question spotted him, strode up and grabbed him urgently by the arms.

Caught off balance, Aramis took an involuntary step backwards as Athos all but shook him and hissed intensely: "Has d'Artagnan reacted that way before?"

Aramis looked quickly around the courtyard. It was quiet, but not deserted, as some musketeers made their way out of the garrison heading for their favourite inn or whorehouse, and others returned from the bathhouses or from visiting their families. Several men were glancing over curiously. "Not here, Athos." He kept his voice calm, but inwardly felt despair. The one person who had so far kept his cool – what had changed?

Athos held his eyes a moment longer then subsided, nodding and dropping his hands. Looking around he finally noticed their small audience and winced. "Where is he?"

"I was going to try the stables first." Aramis clapped an arm around Athos' shoulders, as much to reassure their observers as Athos, and the two moved off in step.

"Why are you so concerned with his reaction?" Aramis asked as they approached the stables. "You seem upset."

Athos stopped, then resumed walking more slowly. "It might explain something that happened later in the war."

"What?"

"It's... not important now. A story for another day, perhaps. Right now, I need to know what d'Artagnan went through so I can help him."

"You heard what I said," observed Aramis quietly as they reached the stable entrance. "There is nothing I can add until we have spoken with d'Artagnan. I shouldn't have broken his confidence at all, but – well. Things happened."

"Indeed." Athos' tone was wry. "I apologise for my intensity. It is important I know but – I'll explain later." He ended quietly as they spotted d'Artagnan's head moving at the end of the dimly-lit stables, where Nuit was stalled.

Aramis looked at him assessingly but Athos only repeated "later", so he took the hint and called out cheerfully: "She has to be the best-groomed mount in the garrison," as they approached.

d'Artagnan carried on grooming his black mare with even strokes of the brush down her flank, but he looked up with a wry grin. "Ah," he said softly.

"'Ah'?" enquired Athos.

"I was taking bets with myself as to who would arrive first."

"Did you win?"

d'Artagnan huffed out a laugh and put the brush down, patting Nuit on the neck and walking around to sit on the stack of straw bales in the empty stall at the end of the barn. "Sort of. Aramis was my banker, but I thought Porthos would be next." He patted the bale next to him and Athos joined him, wondering whether he'd just been insulted or complimented.

"How's your nose?"

"Still in one piece, thanks to a nifty manoeuvre from Aramis, and I can breathe now."

"I'm sorry."

"No need. Aramis explained."

Aramis had remained standing, leaning on one of the end-posts of the stalls. "d'Artagnan, I need to apologise. I – well, I..."

"I heard."

Aramis winced, scrutinising d'Artagnan's face anxiously. "I shouldn't have said anything. You have my deepest apology."

d'Artagnan looked surprisingly relaxed. "I was trying to make myself come back in to face everyone, so I heard what you said, Aramis. In a way I'm glad. It's time. I'm just ... I'm worried about Constance, about what she will think."

Aramis nodded – that had always been d'Artagnan's deepest worry from the first time he talked about everything, back in Douai – but before he had a chance to respond, another voice joined in.

"Don't."

All three looked up to find Constance standing a few feet away, with Porthos' reassuring figure right behind her.

d'Artagnan rose, looking apprehensive. "Don't...?"

"Don't worry about me. Nothing has changed: I think what I have always thought: that you are the most pig-headed, reckless, annoying man I have ever met."

Porthos coughed and leaned forward to whisper in Constance's ear.

"Yes, it is a bloomin' compliment!" she snapped. Porthos's eyebrows shot up and he leaned back again, hastily.

"It is," agreed d'Artagnan to no one in particular. "You should hear what she calls me when she's annoyed."

There was a moment of silence before Athos made an odd noise then groaned and put a hand, tenderly, to his nose.

"Athos?" Aramis whisked to his side, looking concerned.

"I'm fine. But do remind me next time someone breaks my nose, it's not a good idea to snort with laughter."

There followed a minor bustle as Aramis demanded a handkerchief, and everyone rummaged in pockets and eventually Porthos found a clean one, which Aramis dunked in Nuit's water bucket and draped over Athos' nose against his protests. "It'll keep the swelling down so stop complaining – and remember not to laugh," Aramis instructed him unsympathetically.

In the midst of this d'Artagnan spotted the wine bottles and cups Porthos had thoughtfully brought with him.

"Thought we might need some more lubrication, if the party's continuing out 'ere," Porthos explained, somewhat sheepishly.

d'Artagnan found everyone was looking at him, and he grimaced, rubbing a hand over his face wearily. Aramis frowned. "d'Artagnan, I know I've – precipitated things somewhat, but you don't have to say any more now – or at all, unless – "

"Been carrying that around a long time, though, ain't 'e?" Porthos commented softly, coming to sit on d'Artagnan's other side and plonking a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We don't need the details," objected Athos calmly. "Although," he mused, "it would be helpful to know if there are any other triggers we should avoid." Porthos nodded his agreement, lips twitching as he wondered if it was okay to laugh about any of this.

d'Artagnan looked at each of them in turn, his gaze coming to rest finally on Constance who was still standing in the aisle between the stalls, as if wondering whether to stay. Then he rose, and stretched a hand out to Constance in invitation, indicating the spot he'd just vacated on the straw bale. Hesitantly she took his hand and settled herself, accepting a cup from Porthos with a smile of thanks.

d'Artagnan wandered up the aisle then back again, obviously considering his next words carefully. Eventually he drew in a long breath and turned to face them.

"You're right, Porthos, it is a long time. And you don't need the details, but Athos, I'm not sure about triggers. I thought I had dealt with all of this two years ago, with Aramis' help, but it seems I was mistaken. So perhaps it is better if you know ... some of it." He looked at Constance again, his eyes dark with some emotion she could not identify.

"Are you sure?" Porthos checked, looking from d'Artagnan and Constance worriedly. "Maybe you just want to talk to Constance on 'er own?"

d'Artagnan paused, eyes still on Constance. "It's up to you, my love," he said, quietly.

She shook her head, not at all sure she wanted to be on her own with this.

"Or maybe just Aramis," Porthos suggested, still uncertain.

d'Artagnan looked at him. "You don't have to be here if it's difficult for you, Porthos," he said, gently.

Porthos looked surprised, then outraged. "That's not it! I don't mean – I ... uh!"

Aramis came to his rescue. "When we talked, in Douai, you found it helpful, didn't you, d'Artagnan?" A nod from the dark-haired Gascon. "Do you think it would be helpful now – to _you_ , to explain to everyone?" He stressed the pronoun slightly, as if reminding d'Artagnan that his need was most important.

d'Artagnan hesitated then started pacing again. "I have had enough of – hiding things. But," he swung around and this time Constance had no trouble interpreting his gaze, "I'm not sure..." He stopped again and she decided she'd had enough.

Rising briskly she marched up to him. "You're afraid." It was not a question, but he nodded anyway, looking startled.

"Of – what? My reaction?"

He hesitated again. "Not – no, I know you will understand, it's just – "

"Damned right I will," she interrupted fiercely, putting a hand to his chest and pushing him firmly enough to make him take a step backwards, then carried on, shoving him back a step at a time in emphasis. "I will _not_ let something that happened _two years_ ago come _between_ us – like it did _last night!"_

"Last night?" wondered Porthos aloud, before Aramis whacked him across the chest. "Oof. Sorry."

Fortunately for him, Constance was oblivious, still apparently intent on driving d'Artagnan the length of the aisle. "If you have _so little faith_ in me that you think a _little thing_ like this is enough to _change_ the way I _feel_ about you –"

"Hardly 'little'," objected Porthos, making sure he was out of range of Aramis.

"Er, Constance," called Athos at the same time, seeing disaster looming. "You might want to..."

" – then you _don't_ know me _at all_!" Her last shove was fierce enough to send d'Artagnan completely off balance, and his backwards lurch to keep his feet was thwarted by the water bucket neither had noticed behind him. In slow motion, it seemed, he wind-milled backwards, landing with a thud on the cobbles, the bucket of water inevitably following his earthward plunge and dumping its contents on his middle as it landed.

Amidst the confusion of horses whinnying and feet stamping, Inséparables leaping to their feet to rescue d'Artagnan, Porthos guffawing inadvisably until Aramis stepped on his foot, and Athos muttering grumpily that he wished people would stop trying to making him laugh, no-one took notice of Constance until Aramis realised her shoulders were shaking.

"Constance?" He peered at her halfway through hauling a dripping and slightly shocked Gascon to his feet, then realised she too was laughing.

"Come here, you idiotic Gascon," she chided him, stepping in to hug him then backing off hastily when she realised just how wet he was. Porthos found a relatively clean saddle blanket and started dabbing enthusiastically at his soaking shirt until d'Artagnan pushed him away with a wince.

"Are you alright?" Aramis started to lift d'Artagnan's shirt so he could identify the source of the wince. "And don't bother with the 'I'm fine' routine. We've heard it all before," he added, firmly.

d'Artagnan smiled ruefully. "Just a few bruises. Porthos has put on a bit of weight since returning."

"He landed on you!" exclaimed Constance, remembering the eruption in the room when d'Artagnan had broken Athos' nose.

"Mm," agreed d'Artagnan.

Porthos looked chagrined, remembering just how hard they'd landed.

"Nothing broken, Aramis. I think my elbow's more painful, to be honest."

"Your ...? Oh, dammit. Let me see?" He rolled up d'Artagnan's sleeve to reveal an angry swelling and some spectacular bruising already darkening his elbow where he'd slammed it into Athos's face then landed on it when Porthos tackled him to the ground.

"Karma," remarked Athos slightly smugly.*

"Wow, that must hurt," added Porthos looking impressed.

Aramis gave them both a reproving look and helped d'Artagnan back to the straw bale, demanding Athos' scarf and dipping it in Nuit's water bucket again before wrapping it around the swollen joint, then started prodding his ribs with concentration until d'Artagnan batted him away impatiently.

"I told you, they are just bruised. Can we get on with this?"

Everyone subsided and settled back down.

"Are you sure that – "

"Yes, dammit!"

Porthos looked wounded and d'Artagnan apologised, rubbing his head then snapping at Aramis that his head was fine before he'd even asked.

Athos sighed and poured more wine for everyone, thinking that it would be time for morning muster before they'd finished talking, at this rate.

Eventually all was calm and all eyes were on d'Artagnan again, who took a deep breath, then stood and started pacing again before finally settling cross-legged on the ground in front of the others, leaning against the partition wall of the end stall.

"Before I start, I just want to make one thing clear. I am not – this is not..." he looked desperately at Aramis who nodded, encouragingly. "I know – I expect, at least, that some of this will sound – bad. But it's not – I mean it's not good, what happened, but it's not..." They were all looking at him with varying degrees of patient or impatient incomprehension on their faces.

He sighed, and tried again. "It's not really about... What I'm trying to say..."

There was a sound of protest from Constance, and Aramis put his hand on hers, telling her silently ' _wait, let him speak_ ' with his eyes.

He looked down at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "It's about – at least, I think it's about – _control_. All of this, what happened. It was more than just an interrogation – I could have handled that. It was the way he did it. He... _enjoyed_ it."

The silence in the stable was thick and intense now, and he looked up briefly, as if checking that they were still there, then looked back down. It was easier without seeing their expressions. That way he could just say what was in his head, as Aramis had encouraged him two years ago, without worrying about their reactions.

"He – Bautista – he loved every second he spent causing us pain. Making us afraid. Making us want to die, and ... not letting us. _Playing_ with us.

" _That's_ what I struggled with, afterwards. Everything that you saw when you rescued me... every time things got too much after that – that was all about ... control. Not pain, as such, or fear, although that was part of it. And not" – he hesitated, then used the word carefully – "not the _rape_ itself. That was just another way to... to inflict pain and ... fear. It was all about how he made us – made _me_ – feel." He hesitated again, trying to put names to feelings that were just too big for words. "He made me feel _worthless_. Insignificant."

His face twisted impatiently as he realised these words didn't really express it. "Aie! This is so difficult to explain. It was like... like I didn't exist. I was so unimportant that I could have been dead or alive and it made no difference. Not to him or to me. And afterwards, I couldn't... I couldn't _find_ myself. I couldn't remember how to be _me_ , how not to feel the way I felt in his hands, I was just _lost_ ," words spilling over themselves now, unaware of his audience, "and all the people and the questions and the noise, the _noise_ people make, it just bombards you, and I can't _handle_ it, I don't know what to say because I'm not _in there_ anymore, I'm... I'm ... "

"You're **here**." Aramis' gentle voice came from right beside him and he jumped, realising he'd closed his eyes against the feelings he was trying to express. "You're here, and we're here. You're not that person anymore. You're in control, you have people who will listen – look around you. We're all here, just sitting quietly, listening to you saying what you want to say. Feeling what you want to feel. Everything's calm here. Listen to the horses, listen to their breathing."

His voice was hypnotic, thought Constance, staring in fascination as Aramis gently took d'Artagnan's hands in his and stopped the awful twisting and skin-tearing she'd been watching helplessly as he talked. Carefully he uncurled d'Artagnan's fingers and went on talking, too soft for her to hear now, and d'Artagnan was listening, taking deep breaths, unclenching his jaw, and nodding.

Aramis looked up and caught her eye. She looked around, then plucked the damp handkerchief from Athos' hand where he'd removed it from his nose, and dunked it in the water bucket again, wringing it out and handing it to Aramis. He frowned, but she shrugged as if to say "if it's not clean enough, get your own", so he took it and wrapped it around d'Artagnan's left hand where he'd drawn blood.

"I didn't mean to ..." d'Artagnan said quietly after a moment. "I didn't realise how hard this ... " Another sigh.

"It'll always be there, ready to tap into," said Aramis. "You can't lose the memories, or the feelings, much as you'd love to," he added with feeling. "But they lose their impact, the more you look at them, or talk about them. You just need to make sure you're in a safe place, with people you trust, when you go there." He looked at each of them, nodding with satisfaction when he saw that they understood.

d'Artagnan drew another ragged breath in, slowly. "I was trying to ... trying to explain..."

Unexpectedly Athos interrupted him. "We get it, my friend. It's not the deeds themselves but the way they made you feel that affected you so deeply, is that right?"

d'Artagnan nodded, slowly.

"An' you're telling us that so we don't get hung up on the details, right?" chimed in Porthos.

Another nod, this time accompanied by a grateful smile.

Constance hugged herself. "So do we need to hear the details then?" she asked, tentatively. She'd been really shaken by this glimpse of d'Artagnan's insecurities: for the first time she could understand how bad it had been, when Athos sent him to Paris to get help, and why d'Artagnan had not wanted her to see him like that.

It was Aramis who answered this time. "No, _we_ don't. But I think _you_ need to tell us, don't you, d'Artagnan?"

An infinitesimal nod this time, then the dark eyes scanned each face carefully. And then he began.

* * *

 _So, ready for the last flashback, as d'Artagnan fills in the final gap in the story of his captivity? I hope so... and don't forget, do please let me know what you think!_

* I find the notion of _karma_ surprisingly comforting. Wikipedia explains that the Vedic Sanskrit word kárman means "work" or "deed" and it describes the concept of cause and effect, where an individual's words and deeds (cause) influence the future of that individual in a good or bad way (effect), depending on their actions. The origin is in ancient India, but karma is a key concept in Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, Sikhism, and Taoism. There are also similarities in Christianity's moral approach eg "reap what one sows" (Galatians 6:7) and "live by the sword, die by the sword" (Matthew 26:52). So I'm guessing Athos, at least, might have been familiar with the concept.


	15. Chapter 15: What Would You Sacrifice II

_Thanks to everyone who has reviewed – I truly appreciate your support! At Sarah, thank you – that's what I was hoping to hear! And at Debbie – glad I made you laugh; we needed that, didn't we? And well done for picking up on the hint of more revelations that Athos referred to. It's a teaser for the final part of this trio of war stories, which is well underway if anyone has the appetite for more in due course._

 _Now, on with the penultimate chapter, where we go back for the final time in this story as d'Artagnan talks about the circumstances surrounding the rape. Again there is nothing explicit but we do hear about the circumstances so please heed my warnings; I explore it not for gratuitous effect but simply to try to understand what someone might go through, and to applaud the courage of those who survive and move on from terrible experiences with the help of loving friends and family._

 **Chapter Fifteen: What would you Sacrifice II**

 _Spain, 1634_

They'd been left alone until Felipe had died, and then both bodies – his and Captain LeVentes – had been dragged away and dumped, unceremoniously, outside the crumbling walls of the small hill fort.

d'Artagnan had looked into the agonised eyes of the dying boy and tried to dredge up words of Spanish that might offer him a crumb of comfort. He'd watched him sob in agony, endured him clawing at d'Artagnan's chest, and finally watched the light fade slowly from his eyes. When his body had been dragged away, he'd left behind a puddle of black liquid which coated d'Artagnan's legs and chest, attracting hundreds of buzzing flies which lingered even after the body was removed. When he saw this d'Artagnan had finally let go of the control he'd been clinging to while cradling the boy. Guilt, revulsion, relief and shame chased around in his head; and something like bereavement. He felt bereft without the burning need in the boy's eyes and the warm body heavy on his legs, and he lost himself for a long time.

It took every ounce of his remaining willpower to pull away from the hellish pit his thoughts were tumbling into, and drag himself back to the present.

Throughout all of this Patrice had remained silent, until eventually (" _You're a Musketeer. Musketeers don't give up")_ d'Artagnan had forced himself to move, and looked over at the other man. "Are you okay?"

There was a long silence, then Patrice muttered: "Yes, I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

d'Artagnan closed his eyes.

He couldn't think of anything to say. He'd tried to help, and made it worse. No, not just worse: he'd signed the boy's death warrant.

Neither spoke again that afternoon. d'Artagnan edged away from the worst of the bloodstains but couldn't do anything about his blood-soaked clothes. The sun beat down mercilessly and he could feel the skin on his hands and neck burning. Sweat pooled around his neck and chest, and the heat was making him feel faint. Or maybe that was the lack of food and water.

When the sun finally dipped behind the crumbling tower behind the compound, and a blessed shadow crawled across the area where they were chained, d'Artagnan tried to sleep, but everything was throbbing across his back and kidneys, and when he tried to lie more on his front, he had to twist his head to avoid pressure on his swollen jaw. Eventually he found the position that hurt least, and tried to relax, but every burst of laughter, every "ching" of a weapon jerked him back to wakefulness.

Eventually he dropped off – to be woken within minutes, it seemed, by a kick to the ribs and a harsh " _Lev_ _á_ _ntate_! Get up!"

He struggled to sit up, seeing Patrice do the same next to him, looking around apprehensively. The Spanish Captain was standing there along with Bautista – who had delivered the wake-up kick – and a couple of other men, one holding a bottle of water. d'Artagnan couldn't stop his eyes from sliding back to the water time and again and eventually Captain Ortega gave a low command and the soldier bearing the water stepped forward, holding it out to d'Artagnan. Hardly daring to believe it, he leaned forward as far as the chains around his wrists would allow, and got his lips to the bottle's neck – before it was whisked away, to the sound of laughter echoing around the courtyard.

"In our army we work for our privileges." The Captain's tone was bitingly sarcastic.

"I thought water was a necessity, not a privilege," d'Artagnan responded equally sarcastically, earning himself a slap around the face which snapped his head to the side, his long hair flying. He breathed out slowly and straightened himself again, trying to subdue the anger that blazed in him.

"You have the attitude of a town drunk, not a soldier. The musketeers must be desperate for recruits."

d'Artagnan managed to keep his mouth shut this time, happy to see Bautista drop his hand with an air of disappointment.

"A question then, in return for water."

"It would be my pleasure," answered d'Artagnan courteously. "Let's see: when will the evening meal be served?"

For a second Ortega just stared in disbelief, then he snapped at Bautista and turned away as his henchman began to give d'Artagnan the beating of his life.

* * *

d'Artagnan regained consciousness slowly. His head was throbbing and his face _hurt_. He tried to move and let out an involuntary groan as every muscle in his body seemed to go into spasm.

"Easy." He knew the voice but couldn't place it for a moment, and then it all came flooding back in an instant. He groaned again, and retched.

It took him ten agonising minutes before he could open his eyes and move his head without retching. The first thing he saw was Patrice's face looming anxiously at him from his post six feet away. "At last! You've been asleep for hours!"

d'Artagnan couldn't raise the energy to point out that he'd hardly been sleeping, but Patrice's petulant tone grated on him. It was hardly his fault they were in this situation! Patrice was four bloody years older than him, he remembered. Couldn't he take a bit of responsibility? Divert attention from d'Artagnan? Or say something helpful, funny, even, to take his mind off the pain he was in and away from the pain of what had happened to LeVente and Felipe, and d'Artagnan's role in it? Just one word of support or comfort ... was that too much to ask?!

Suddenly an intense longing for the Inséparables crashed over him. If the Captain had offered him a choice, in that instant, between water and Athos, Porthos or Aramis, he would have gladly spurned the water in favour of a few moments with one of his brothers. Porthos wouldn't be whinging at d'Artagnan, he'd be – what would he be doing? Trying to break his chains or lift the post from the ground, no doubt. And cracking comfortingly awful jokes while he was at it.

Aramis – well, he would be fussing, which would be tiresome, but he would make d'Artagnan feel safe and not as if he was likely to die here, in agony, in not too many hours' time.

And Athos? d'Artagnan thought he would be keeping quiet, analysing the situation, picking up on any tensions between the officers that he could exploit, noting the pattern of the watchmen and where the weapons were kept. And watching d'Artagnan all the time, giving him his silent support.

d'Artagnan fought against the wave of self-pity which threatened to choke him at the thought that he might never again seen the three men who were more important to him than his own life. He crushed the feeling of helplessness ruthlessly and took a breath, forcing himself to look at Patrice. If they weren't here, he would have to play their roles – all of them. At least that way he could hold his head high, if these were to be his last days.

"Sorry, my friend. How have things been while I was – sleeping?" he asked, as conversationally as possible.

Patrice gaped at him. "How do you think they've been?" he snapped.

"Tense, hot, and scary?" suggested d'Artagnan, trying to smile past his swollen lips.

There was a pause. "Pretty much. Although maybe not in that order." He looked at d'Artagnan. "You look awful."

"I'm fine. Just bruises." Probably a good thing none of the others were here; Patrice wouldn't know any different.

"And the rest."

"What do you mean?"

"Porthos warned us all about you and the 'I'm fine' thing."

Oh.

Just then, a Spaniard he didn't recognise arrived in front of d'Artagnan holding out a bottle of water. d'Artagnan hesitated, looking around for Bautista.

"Take it. They gave me some earlier, no tricks," Patrice urged him. d'Artagnan didn't need telling twice, dipping his head and drinking greedily until he'd drained half the bottle. The Spaniard lifted it away and stood back, then shrugged and tipped the rest of the bottle over d'Artagnan's head.

"Hey!" protested Patrice. But d'Artagnan was lost in bliss as the cool water doused his headache and dripped down his face, washing away a little bit of the blood, sweat and grime stuck to his skin.

" _Gracias_ ," he called out in thanks as the soldier walked away.

Thus started a pattern, of sorts. They would be given water in the morning, and sometimes something to eat – stale bread, raw corn or once, bizarrely, a few bruised and over-ripe peaches, which both men devoured in a state of bliss – and then they would be left to stew in the roaring heat of the day whilst the Spanish soldiers went out on patrol, or lazed in the shade on the other side of the courtyard. By the end of the day both men would be desperate for water, shade and rest, being unable to sleep in the heat of the day. It would be at this low point that Ortega and Bautista would arrive, offering water in return for information. They would pick one of them – usually whoever had not been targeted the night before – and work on him steadily, leaving the other to watch and listen to their agony for hours.

Sometimes they even asked questions.

Bautista was a man who seemed to enjoy his work. In particular, he used his knife in many creative ways. He clearly derived pleasure from marking his victim – drawing the blade across the forearm was a favourite, as d'Artagnan had discovered; he soon had twenty or more painful cuts on each arm, marking every question he refused to answer. He had even ordered their hands to be chained in front rather than behind them for this reason.

He was calm and methodical except when d'Artagnan answered back, or didn't answer quickly enough, and then just occasionally another side of his nature showed itself. He caught d'Artagnan by the hair several times, yanking his head back so far that his back arched until he was gasping with pain and could hardly breathe. Then he would bring his knife up to d'Artagnan's face and dig the point lightly into his skin, often by his eye, again both marking and causing the most pain.

After a few nights of this, there were few areas of skin unmarked by his knife. He never dug too deep although d'Artagnan suspected that would come – if they survived that long. The cuts bled freely and attracted flies, and d'Artagnan was sick of trying to bat them away from his wounds.

One morning he woke from a shallow doze to find Patrice screaming and flailing around, attracting growing attention from the nearest group of soldiers.

"Patrice! Stop, for pity's sake!" hissed d'Artagnan. "What's wrong with you? Patrice!"

"Maggots!" he gasped. "Maggots crawling on me! I can feel them!"

d'Artagnan looked at his own skin and saw with revulsion a few fat maggots exploring some of the older cuts on his arms, many of which were showing signs of infection. He could feel panic rising as he thought about how to dislodge them as the chains restricted his movement, and if he rubbed his arms on his face wouldn't they end up in the wounds around his mouth and eyes?

At the same time a tentative voice in his head, sounding a lot like Aramis, was telling him that maggots were useful in cleaning infected wounds. Trying to quash his own feelings of revulsion he talked, then shouted, over Patrice until eventually he started listening, sobbing in his fear but trusting d'Artagnan enough, by then, to hear the sense in his words. He kept his eyes jammed shut but managed to lie quiet and eventually the watching soldiers got bored and wandered off. It took a huge effort of will and faith not to try to dislodge the maggots, but the infected wounds certainly didn't seem to get any worse and with everything else they had to put up with, both of them learned not to think about it.

After maybe ten days of this, d'Artagnan and Patrice both knew inside that they were out of hope, and time. No one was coming for them. It was now about three weeks since they'd been captured, d'Artagnan thought: if the Musketeers could track them, they would have found them already. The pair knew they were worthless to the Spanish: any information they could give would be out of date by now. There had been no hint about wanting to exchange them for Spanish prisoners; no questions about who to negotiate with. They were just – in the way.

One night, Ortega wandered over without Bautista and stood looking down at them. d'Artagnan sat up straighter, aware of how he looked. His boots and jacket had long since been appropriated; his shirt reeked with stinking blood and sweat; his hair hung in oily lumps around his face, and it seemed every inch of him was either misshapen with swelling or bruising, oozing blood, or crawling with maggots, lice or fleas. But he still pushed himself upright and tried to shove his hair out of his eyes so he could meet Ortega's cool gaze full on.

Neither man spoke, then Ortega simply nodded, and walked off. d'Artagnan looked around, catching Patrice's eye, and shrugged, but he felt cold inside. As if he'd been measured, and his future decided, all without words.

The next morning there was a general bustle, horses were saddled and belongings gathered, and all but a handful of men mounted up and rode out after the Captain, who didn't even look over at the two prisoners as he left.

Bautista was one of those who stayed behind.

* * *

Back in Paris, in a warm stable lit only by a couple of lanterns, in the middle of the night, surrounded by his dearest friends, d'Artagnan hesitated, then remembered that they already knew the worst. He mustered his Gascon stubbornness and decided to describe everything as briefly as possible.

"They ... raped Patrice first. Didn't even ask a question – it wasn't about information any more. It was clear they'd done it before, to some other poor bastard. Two of them just unchained him, threw him down with his arms outstretched; one of them stood on his wrists and put a foot on his neck, and there was nothing he could do. The other one did the business. That was it."

His matter-of-fact delivery did nothing to disguise the pain in his eyes as he remembered the scene, or the deep shock Constance felt as she tried to envisage his reaction, seeing this unspeakable, unimaginable horror played out in front of him.

He was rubbing his fingers again and Aramis moved to sit next to him, putting a hand on his to still them. d'Artagnan looked down, smiled and patted his hand in an echo of the Musketeers' infamous "one for all" gesture.

Drawing his shoulders back he carried on, more briskly. "Bautista ... he raped me." Constance couldn't help a choked cry escaping her lips. Even though she knew it was coming, just hearing the words from her husband – this beloved, strong, gentle, compassionate, funny man that she loved inside and out – made it suddenly real and for a moment she thought she couldn't bear it. But in the next second Porthos' strong arm had snaked its way around her shoulders and he was pulling her in close to his solid, comforting body. And on her other side, Athos curled his warm fingers around hers. She gave him a grateful smile as she leaned into Porthos and turned her eyes resolutely back to her husband.

He'd stopped at her gasp, biting his lip, but had seen the comfort offered by the two who flanked her, and after a moment he lifted his chin and doggedly carried on.

"It was the same as Patrice – everything was so slick there was no way to – resist." Another pause. "I did struggle – I couldn't help it." A fond snort from Porthos made him smile, wryly. "I know. It got me into no end of trouble but I just couldn't ... lie there and, and, _submit_..." The word came out almost as a sob and he took a moment to swallow and settle himself again. "Trouble was ... Bautista seemed to like it when I... when I tried to – to fight against it. Against _him._ Patrice was ... He was completely overwhelmed by it. Just couldn't cope, really. He cried all the time after that. And they pretty much left him alone."

He turned to look out to the courtyard then, holding his head high, but Constance could see the glitter of tears in his eyes and the way he swallowed repeatedly. What was he thinking? She started to rise, to go to him, but Porthos nudged her, tightening his arm around her shoulders, and she hesitated. Athos patted her hand and she ducked her head, acknowledging the unspoken message. _Let him speak._

"I sometimes wonder what would have happened, if I hadn't resisted... but I can't change who I am, or how I react." His voice was husky now, and quiet, but they all heard every word. "And I think I knew, even then, that ... he enjoyed it more because I struggled... And I _hated_ that, I _hated_ that I was playing into his hands and giving him... giving him _pleasure!_ " He spat out the last word and had to stop speaking for a moment, drawing in ragged breaths as he tried to compose himself. "But I didn't do it for him," he went on more quietly. "I did it for me."

There was a long, long silence, then a small exclamation from Porthos, of impatience or annoyance or something, and the next second he'd pushed himself decisively up from the straw bale and virtually dived onto d'Artagnan, enveloping him in a massive hug. She saw d'Artagnan's startled expression, then his head sank onto Porthos' shoulder and the two men clung to one another for a minute. She felt bereft of Porthos' warmth herself, then annoyed with herself for this selfish thought, knowing that d'Artagnan needed the comfort far more than her. But beside her Athos stirred, and pulled her in for a gentle hug which, after a moment of surprise that this lovely, private man was offering her such tangible support, she accepted gratefully, burrowing her face into his neck for a moment until she'd composed herself.

When she looked up again, she could see only a tangle of men on the floor which resolved itself into a kneeling Porthos with suspiciously wet eyes, leaning across d'Artagnan (flat on his back, smiling up fondly and waiting patiently until he could move) with his arms now around Aramis, who was patting him on the back looking overwhelmed.

When had she ever seen Aramis looking emotional, she thought with a jolt? General consensus in the garrison was that Athos was the closed one, but she'd always felt Aramis, for all his passionate nature, kept the tightest control on his emotions. You _knew_ if Athos had something going on, even if you didn't know what it was, but Aramis was a secret-keeper. None of them had had any inkling of his feelings for the Queen, or his suspicions about the Dauphin, for months. Had he always been that way? Or did he learn it as a result of Savoy? Would d'Artagnan end up just as closed...?

No. No, she'd known something was wrong from the first day, even though she'd wrongly put it down to the strangeness for him of returning to civilisation after four years at war. Yes, it had taken weeks to get to this point, but it had been a question of _when_ , not _if_ , she would find out what was going on inside his head.

She caught Aramis' eye and gave him a smile that said _'thank you for looking after my man'_ and _'I'll talk to you later about keeping secrets from me'_ at the same time. At least she hoped it did. Aramis looked both embarrassed and slightly worried, so she thought she'd got her message across. She wasn't married to the Inséparables – well, one of them – for nothing.

d'Artagnan finally persuaded Porthos to get off him and help him up. None of them missed his wince as Porthos hauled him upright, but when Aramis queried it – "Ribs or elbow?" – d'Artagnan just gave him a look, so he held up his hands in submission and kept quiet.

They all settled again as d'Artagnan looked around, trying to remember where he'd got to before Porthos' flying hug had landed on him. "Um... I'm not quite sure what else to say. It happened – and I survived." He sounded calm now, quite composed, Constance thought with relief.

"You said this happened about three weeks after you'd been captured?" Athos asked slowly.

d'Artagnan nodded.

"So they didn't move you for another week or so, when the French forces got too close to that base. Why did they stay there, when most of their force had moved on already?"

Constance looked at Athos. Did it really matter, this long afterwards, what the Spanish battle tactics had been?

"I suppose ... I ..." He trailed off and Constance flicked her gaze anxiously from Athos to d'Artagnan, alerted by the immediate change in his voice.

After a moment Aramis stirred. "d'Artagnan told me..." he paused, looking at d'Artagnan for permission. A small exhale from the Gascon was enough. "The men left behind were mostly injured or ill. d'Artagnan thought Bautista was second-in-command and perhaps had volunteered to remain until they were fit to travel."

Athos nodded, but still looked speculative. "And when they did eventually catch up to the others, at the second hill-fort, that's when they decided to – abandon their prisoners? Not before?"

d'Artagnan's nostrils flared. Athos was pressing on a wound, it seemed. She started to fret: hadn't they heard enough? Why was he pushing d'Artagnan on this?

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis nudged him gently.

d'Artagnan gave a huge sigh before he spoke, reluctantly. "I can't pretend to understand them, Athos."

"Of course." His words were gentle. "But what did you _think_ , then? About why they kept you long after they'd given up on getting anything useful from you?" And at last Constance understood. There was a gap of a week – a lifetime, in those conditions – about which d'Artagnan had said nothing so far.

"I _think_ ," he burst out, viciously, glaring at Athos as if he hated him, "I _think_ they kept us as _play_ things. Pets. _Entertainment_. _That'_ s what I think."

"It happened more than once?" Athos was compassionate but relentless.

" _Yes_!" It was an angry shout that ended in a sob and a heaving breath.

So much anguish in such a tiny word.

* * *

 _Nearly there – final chapter will be up quickly, I promise. I need a glass of wine after all this!_


	16. Chapter 16: Better Days Are Near

_Yeah... sorry about all the angst. Musketeer-style therapeutic interventions much needed now. At Debbie: I agree Patrice was a wimp, but that would be me in such a situation – a gibbering wreck! I thought the musketeers couldn't all be as stoic as our boys, which made it all the harder for d'Artagnan as he felt he had to "carry" Patrice._

 _Final chapter now; I'm late posting tonight as I've been madly baking cakes since I got home from work, for a fund-raising cafe for our Scout group this weekend. More baking tomorrow, before and after work! Meanwhile, I hope this hits the spot for all you lovely people who have been reading what my mind conjured up over the last few weeks - thank you!_

 **Chapter Sixteen: Better Days are Near**

 _Paris, 1636_

Porthos' eyes were closed and his lips were moving, as if muttering to himself. d'Artagnan's head was bowed, his fingers were knotted in his hair. The 'yes' shimmered in the air.

Why was 'more than once' so much worse than 'once'? Constance wondered to herself, picking at a loose thread on her skirt. Any rape, no matter what the circumstances, was vile, just vile, just... She yanked on the thread, ripping a hole in her skirt, and realised she was crying. Athos' hand covered hers again and she grabbed on to it with a desperate grip as if he was anchoring her.

Aramis came to the rescue again. Lovely Aramis! When he spoke, she relaxed, every time, trusting in him as if he were a teacher or a priest and had all the answers.

"It was days, wasn't it, in Douai, before you managed to tell me all of this. You said then that it was the hardest part – not the fact of being raped, but the way it happened. The way they all watched, and encouraged each other, and joked and laughed while it was happening." His expression was grim, so at odds with his gentle voice, but she welcomed the visible signs of his anger and disgust at what had happened. This was not something any of them could just accept, even if d'Artagnan had seemed calmer once he'd finally begun to talk.

"They gave us water and sometimes food to stop us from dying, because they wanted to go on ... _using_ us ... not because they _cared_ whether we lived."

There. _There_ it was. It was not the cruelty, the beatings, being chained, begging for water, or even the rape, that had nearly broken him, but that helplessness in the face of complete and utter indifference to his fate as a human being.

"And yet that is what saved you." Athos again, each word measured and dropped carefully into the silence. "They wanted you alive. No matter the reason why. You survived until we finally tracked you, because of their – _perversions_." Only the last word betrayed his true feelings about the contemptible nature of the vileness of the treatment d'Artagnan had faced.

There was another long silence, in which d'Artagnan's fingers tightened in his hair until she thought he would rip it out by the roots, and his heaving shoulders betrayed his tumultuous emotions. She itched to go to him but even as she thought about rising, she could feel Athos at her side, wordlessly urging her to be patient until they were sure that everything had at last been spoken aloud.

"I think you're right," remarked Porthos slowly, "but it strikes me there's another reason you survived."

All eyes turned his way except d'Artagnan's, but his shoulders settled a little as he drew a shaky breath and listened. "You said this Bautista bastard liked it when you struggled, didn't ya? You fought 'im cos that's just what you do. You never give up without a fight, right? But 'e happened to like it that way, or 'e'd 've got bored an' tossed you, wouldn't 'e?"

Constance drew in a sharp breath at that matter-of-fact analysis but Athos' hand tightened on hers, warning her to be silent.

After a moment d'Artagnan raised his head and ran a hand down his face to compose himself. She could see the immense effort he made to speak normally. "I probably wouldn't have put it quite like that, my friend, but – it did cross my mind at the time. They got tired of Patrice quite quickly and concentrated on me. I think I – no. No, I _did_ know why. I just didn't want to think about it."

They all nodded. By struggling, he'd kept their interest and kept focus from Patrice, protecting him. But at the same time, as he'd said earlier, he was giving them what they wanted. Gratifying them, and that had hurt him – both physically, by making his own ordeal more violent – but also psychologically.

"I sometimes felt I was just - playing a role. Being ... complicit ... by giving them what they wanted." His voice was just a whisper now.

"Could you have acted differently?" Athos again, calm and measured. "You said you hated the idea of giving him pleasure, but you didn't do it for him. You did it for _you_."

d'Artagnan's own words, voiced back to him, gave him pause. His face creased as he thought, emotions flitting across his features too fast for her to interpret. Then a nod, uncertain at first, then more sure. "You're right. Both of you" – looking at Porthos as well, giving him a fleeting smile – "I didn't fight them – _him_ – on purpose. Patrice told me not to resist so it would be over quicker. But I never could just _let_ it happen."

"There, see! Ya didn't _give_ 'em what they wanted; they _took_ it. Just 'appened your stubborn Gascon nature 'elped to keep you alive long enough for us to find you."

A longer, wry smile lightened his expression. "You make it sound so simple."

"That's cos it is. You survived, that's all I care about." And d'Artagnan disappeared under another bear-hug from Porthos.

This time, the tangle of hugs broke the tension properly, and when d'Artagnan finally extracted himself, looking ruffled, he came over to Constance and sat beside her, wincing gamely as she enveloped him in a bear-hug of her own. Over her head, he exchanged a long look with Athos who simply clasped his shoulder tightly for a moment, then patted him before releasing his hold.

Porthos and Aramis meanwhile had retrieved goblets, fished out bits of hay, rinsed the dregs and replenished everyone's drinks. Passing them around helped to restore a tiny semblance of normality to the scene and everyone drank deeply, even Constance. Looking at the stable window she wondered whether to mention that dawn had already broken, but decided against it. She wasn't sure if they were finished here yet, much as she hoped this was everything now. She really didn't think she could cope with any more just now.

Sure enough, d'Artagnan had something else to say. He fiddled with his goblet and she smiled to herself, thinking she would never have to worry about deception in their marriage; he transmitted his every thought and intention openly, at least amongst friends.

"I know it's been hard to hear but I'm glad you know everything now... Athos, Porthos, thank you for not giving up, when you were searching for me. I should have... I didn't realise how hard it must have been for you both. And Aramis, for helping me afterwards; you rescued me, _mon ami_. And today, all of you, thank you for helping me to talk." His voice cracked and he stopped, swallowing with emotion, his dark eyes glistening.

A gentle smile playing about his lips, Athos lifted his goblet in silent salute, Porthos and Aramis joining him with gusto, to his obvious embarrassment. Looking around for a way to break the mood, knowing these loyal friends would not stir until sure he was finished, he suddenly spotted what Constance had already noticed – daylight starting to creep through the windows. "We've talked the whole night!" he exclaimed, surging to his feet in consternation. "Jacques will be here in a minute!"

The others stood more circumspectly, gathering cups and bottles and restoring order to the empty stall they'd been occupying.

"Have we got time for a nap before muster?" Porthos asked Aramis in what was probably supposed to be a private aside. His face fell when he saw Athos looking at him reprovingly, but cheered up when Aramis patted him on the back and whispered that there would at least be time for a really good breakfast.

d'Artagnan turned to Constance with a smile, happy to see the two getting on so well again, but he stopped when he saw the serious expression on her face. "What is it?"

"Oh, it can wait."

He caught her by the hand so she had to stop, and regarded her seriously. "Tell me." Simple words, simply spoken. She could not refuse him, not after the way he'd bared his soul to them all.

With trepidation, she chose her words, speaking quietly and hoping not to sound too accusatory. "Why did you turn from me last night?

His mind was still buzzing with the emotions stirred by the hours of talking, and he had to dig through rapidly back through the last twenty-four hours for anything she could be referring to... Oh.

He dipped his head to hers, lowering his voice. "I'm sorry, my love. It was when you – when you put your hand on the back of my neck, to pull me... closer."

She caught her breath in dismay. "But I often do that!"

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of stray hair from her forehead. "I know, and it's not normally a problem. I think, after Borel, when everything was fresh in my mind again, I think it just reminded me, for a moment, and I – um – I ..."

"Lost the moment?" suggested Aramis helpfully.

d'Artagnan glared at him, and he got the message and moved out of earshot, fanning his face exaggeratedly with one hand as if he'd been burned by the ferocity of d'Artagnan's reaction.

Constance was nodding, saving him from further embarrassment, but she had another question. "So would you rather I didn't..."

"No! No, don't change anything."

He was looking a bit hot, as Porthos observed loudly to Athos, who dug him in the ribs to shut him up.

None of them were exactly moving away, noticed d'Artagnan with irritation. He turned his back on the smirking trio. "It's fine – I will be fine. It just took me by surprise yesterday, that's all."

She arched a brow at him. "It's not yesterday anymore though, is it?"

He looked momentarily blank then realised that she was right: the new day had started. "No, you're right."

"Of course I am."

It was a moment before he realised: she was flirting with him, her lips quirking in a teasing smile.

He couldn't remember the last time she'd done that. In fact had she at all, since he'd returned? Maybe he just hadn't noticed: he'd been so wrapped up in his own head... "You are a wise woman; that's why I married you."

The gentle smile disappeared and her other eyebrow shot up as he heard a sharp intake of breath from Aramis. _Merde_. He'd forgotten how to do this. "One of the reasons," he amended hastily. Both her brows stayed resolutely up.

He tried again, even knowing full well that he was breaking Aramis' rule about not digging when you're already in a hole. "Along with your incomparable beauty, of course. And your wit and humour, and – _ow_!"

He bent double, wrapping one arm around his stomach where she'd just wacked him. "You hit well, too, for a woman," he croaked, hair flopping over his dark eyes as he looked up with a slightly desperate expression.

"Ooo!" Even Porthos knew he shouldn't have added the last three words.

"Out, everyone!" Athos interjected, rescuing d'Artagnan before it all got out of hand.

In the courtyard, the cobbles were damp from the overnight dew, and the air was fresh. Porthos sniffed appreciatively before remembering something and turning to where d'Artagnan was walking side by side with Constance, their hands not quite touching.

"Are my jokes really that awful?" he asked, sounding plaintive.

Everyone looked confused for a moment then d'Artagnan remembered telling them how, during his captivity, he'd longed for the trio to be with him, wishing Porthos had been there to crack some of his jokes. Had he called them awful? He tried to think back. "I believe the word I used was comforting," he told Porthos with a sense of relief.

"To be precise, 'comfortingly awful' was what you said." Aramis burst out laughing at Porthos' hurt look and draped his arm around his oldest friend's neck. "We love your jokes, Porthos. Even the one about the barmaid who wraps her – "

"Aramis!" warned Athos, flicking his eyes in Constance's direction.

"After what I've just heard, I hardly think the barmaid joke is going to upset me," she chided.

d'Artagnan's eyes widened in alarm. "You know it?"

She patted him gently on the cheek as she swept past. "I know everything, my love!"

Halfway across the courtyard she turned to wait for him and tucked her arm into his, careful to avoid his tender elbow. The others walked slightly ahead and he watched their antics fondly as Aramis and Porthos jostled for position, competing to be first through the mess room door, Athos holding back and shaking his head at their childishness.

"I'm so glad you've told me everything now, my love," she told him as they followed the others into the warmth of the mess room, the blazing fire welcome after the chill of the early morning courtyard.

"Oh, don't worry Constance," called Porthos – who surely had the longest ears of any Musketeer, thought d'Artagnan as he pulled out a chair for Constance. "There are plenty more stories to tell you, and Aramis. We're only half-way through the war, after all. We haven' told you about that battle when Athos tried to rescue d'Artagnan and nearly got 'em both killed, or when Athos went an' lost a vital informant to the Spanish, and we 'ad to rescue the bloke from under their Spanish noses, or when Athos ..."

" _Porthos_!" Athos's glare would have felled a lesser man. Hastily, Aramis greeted a sleepy-looking Serge exuberantly and diverted Athos by asking him to chose between porridge and eggs for breakfast, eyes pleading with Athos not to create a scene. Harrumphing, Athos sat down and reached for a cup of wine. Aramis gave Porthos a 'phew' look, and Porthos burst out laughing.

Serge stomped around, muttering about "officers getting above themselves, disturbing him so early", but Constance knew he didn't mean it. He saw everything, Serge did, and she knew he'd been acutely aware of the tensions that had been brewing since their return. He brought out the best cheese and the first batch of bread, to keep them going while he prepared the porridge, and she could hear the love in every thump of a plate and muttered curse from the kitchen.

It was a surprisingly light-hearted breakfast. Aramis was on great form, teasing Serge, ribbing Athos and getting Porthos to agree to do one of their old blindfold shooting displays. Porthos, who hated losing sleep and had been staring grumpily into his empty porridge bowl, perked up immensely at the thought of all the fun they could have taking bets on their double act, especially as few punters would remember them after so many years away.

d'Artagnan sat quietly watching with Constance leaning on his shoulder, her eyes drooping periodically. Eventually she drifted off, a delicate snore interrupting the intense discussion between Aramis and Porthos about the best kind of bottle to use for their display. Athos, who had eaten a little but mostly sat watching their antics with a kind of wonder at the sight he thought he might never see again, smiled at the sight of her drooling slightly as she snuggled deeper into d'Artagnan's shoulder. Clearing his throat he announced gruffly that he'd forgotten to put any of them on the rota for today so there was no point in waiting around for muster, since they had no duties.

None of them were fooled. For one thing – far from forgetting – he'd not actually had time to do the rotas. However Porthos was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth and he rose immediately, announcing that he and Aramis would get some shooting practice in on the training grounds before the recruits got there. Aramis tried a weak protest but Porthos was having none of it, and caught Aramis by the elbow to march him out. d'Artagnan chuckled, pretty sure that Aramis' objection was only token. This woke Constance, and over her apologies d'Artagnan told her firmly that it was time they both got some sleep.

As they rose, however, Athos caught d'Artagnan by the arm and asked him to wait a moment.

Constance put two fingers on d'Artagnan's jaw to turn his head towards her, kissing him gently on the lips before whispering something in his ear and turning away.

d'Artagnan sat down again, still watching her, then turned to Athos, his own smile dying as he saw Athos' serious expression. "What is it?"

Athos didn't answer straight away, but looked directly into d'Artagnan's eyes until he shifted uncomfortably under the silent scrutiny. "Will you tell me the truth?"

d'Artagnan looked surprised, and slightly hurt. "Of course – always."

"At Roncesvalle, with Lieutenant Colombe. Was that –?"

"Don't." d'Artagnan cut him off fiercely. Athos just looked at him. "I mean it, Athos. That was nearly two years ago. It's over, forgotten – just leave it."

Athos stared at him, assessingly, then spoke so quietly that d'Artagnan could barely hear him over the racket – no other word for it – coming from the kitchen as Serge sang to himself and bashed another batch of bread dough into shape. "Forgotten? You think I will _ever_ forget what happened?"

"Maybe not, but – "

"Then tell me. Please."

d'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat at the soft plea in Athos' voice, but he stood up, decisively, and spoke with quiet finality. "Not today, my friend. We're all tired, and I really have no more energy for talking."

Athos rose too, and the two men stood silently, eyes locked in some unspoken exchange, oblivious to Aramis bouncing back into the mess room to retrieve his forgotten hat, Porthos looming behind him in the doorway, and Constance still waiting at the threshold, watching them with puzzlement clear on her face.

"What's going on?" Aramis whispered to Constance, who shrugged, but Porthos cleared his throat then called over their heads.

"Athos, would you like me to do muster this morning?"

Athos looked over sharply, then smiled ruefully, knowing full well that Porthos was attempting to divert him. Looking back at d'Artagnan he nodded, seeing d'Artagnan relax, then leaned in and spoke one word quietly. "Soon." Then he headed for the door, thanking Porthos and promising that he would find Jumot and ask him to do muster so he could get some sleep himself.

d'Artagnan followed him, standing aside as the first group of bleary-eyed musketeers started filtering in for their own breakfasts.

Aramis sent him a quizzical look as he asked slowly: "Something I've missed?"

"Not really..."

"Yes." Porthos cut across d'Artagnan decisively. "There's a lot more 'bout the war we haven' shared. But not today, my friend." He wrapped his arm around Aramis' shoulders and steered him out into the courtyard. "Today, we remember the good times. You 'n me, couple of empty bottles, maybe a full one too, an' a couple o' stones the right size... we've got some trainin' to do, mon ami."

"Come on then, husband. You and I have a lot of catching up to do." Constance was still waiting patiently as he hesitated in the doorway watching more musketeers wander sleepily into the mess room.

"Constance, I've really had enough talking for one day," he said, looking apprehensive. She reached through the doorway to catch him by the neck of his shirt, pulling him firmly towards her, amidst appreciative hoots from the musketeers already settling for breakfast. As she took him by the hand and led him across the courtyard, he was already laughing even before she clarified things for him.

"Who said anything about talking?"

 _fin_

* * *

 _A/N: I have absolutely loved writing and sharing this story!_ _As the boys have hinted, there is more to come from the second half of the war: how did d'Artagnan cope when he returned after recuperating in Douai, and why he didn't tell the others anything of what had happened to him? And what did happen at Roncesvalles...? I already have some ideas sketched out but if there's anything you'd like to see, please let me know and I'll work it in if I can. (At Helensg – you don't need to ask!) Finally, many, many thanks to you all for being out there as readers. Knowing someone is reading the scenarios I've had in my head is what makes me work and re-work the story until it's as good as I can manage. Hasta pronto,_ _à_ _bient_ _ô_ _t, and see you soon!_


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